


Road To Hell

by Solarist



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (lots of) murder, Alcohol, Alternate Origin Story, Betrayal, Blood and Violence, Descent into Madness, Drugs, Easter Eggs, Epic Friendship, Gang Violence, Gangs, Gotham Outskirts, Hallucinations, Hatred, Loneliness, Mental Instability, Origin Story, Prequel, Psychological Trauma, Smoking, Thriller, dark but humor exists, eerie setting, hinted romance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 36
Words: 122,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25074835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarist/pseuds/Solarist
Summary: Two years before Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham, three years before the Joker runs over the city, in a town two hundred kilometres away from Gotham, devils lurk in still waters. Joker's origins. Cross-published on FanFiction.
Relationships: Joker & Original Female Character(s), Jonathan Crane & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 5





	1. Part 1: Gotham Outskirts - Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello folks!  
> I know the "Joker" season already passed, with the movie coming out last fall and Joaquin Phoenix winning the Oscar, but....still.  
> I actually wrote this fan fiction before I knew there was going to be a movie about Joker's origins (so last summer), and the writing is already kind of old, and honestly, the first couple of chapters are meh at best because I was experimenting on how to approach the characters and their relations with each other, but please give them a chance! They're basically for character introduction.  
> Another side note (I know, I know, I'm getting wordy): I was writing mostly about Heath Ledger's interpretation of the character....and I got sort of uncreative with the naming of the character. Just saying. 
> 
> Well, that's it for now. Hope you enjoy and don't forget to leave kudos and review!

The cold glass gently nudged her at the back of her ankles. Winnifred carefully slanted her eyes down, tracing her gaze down to the three bottles of Heineken beer in a plastic bag. Behind her, Sammy leaned over the table and showed her a quick thumbs up. Winnifred cast him a grimace and warily looked at the teacher in front. His bald spot in the center of his head gleamed in the bright lamplight like sand in the sun. Beautiful. Carefully, she slipped a dollar bill out of her back pocket, just enough for Sammy to see. He sent her a broad grin and slouched back in his chair. Winnifred contently tucked the money back and turned away from Sammy. Her eyes inevitably ran to the clock. The long hand struck fifty-six. God damn it..... 

She was the first to run out of class. Racing across the sidewalk and dodging away from students, Winnifred skidded behind the college church. Next to the walls, with no veneration to the sacred building whatsoever, was a group of students playing cards. Winnifred felt a broad smile stretch her dry lips. Trampling the moist dirt with her flip flops, she flung her bag over her shoulder and started towards the guys. Coming behind the one with a long, torn coat, Winnifred wrapped her arms around him, trying to get a glance on his cards. 

"You missed class again, Heath," she remarked. Heath absentmindedly rubbed his hand against his lips, not looking in her way. 

"Did you get the beer?" 

"Sammy stripped off thirty bucks." Heath grinned and quickly passed over the cards to another player. 

"Quite generous for his taste. Where'd you get the money?" 

"Does it matter?" Winnifred calmly retorted, watching the game. "Who's winning?" 

"You'll see in a moment," Billy answered her, triumphantly holding his two cards. 

"Both are the highest trump cards left. Will you consider yourself lost, eh Heath?" 

"Go ahead and we'll see," Heath returned, glancing at his opponent out of the card. Winnifred saw a small kindle of fire glimpse in his eyes.

"Did the trump ace leave the game?" She quietly asked. He nodded, eyeing Billy. The latter victoriously threw down his card. 

"Trump king!" The guys around them whistled, intrigued by the prospect of Heath losing. Winnifred felt the muscles in Heath's neck flex against her hand. 

"Well?" Billy sharply clicked his tongue. "Will you take it?" 

"No, why should I?" Heath smiled and threw down his card. "C'mon, Freddie, let's go. Jonathan is probably waiting for us." Heath stood up, shaking Winnifred's hands off, quickly gathered the stack of money, and wrapped his hand around her shoulders, leading her away from the appalled group. She craned her neck back to see what they were all staring at; it was the joker card. Smirking, Winnifred turned back. 

"Could've let them win once, you know. After all, they are your friends."

"Don't' get so familiar, Freddie," Heath warned, letting his hand fall down off her shoulders. He looked to his side, noticing her sack and bag with beer. Mumbling something like "for fuck's sake what are you carrying", he grabbed the strap from her fingers and swung her stuff over his shoulder. Winnifred happily let him take the plastic bag as well. 

"Thirty dollars?" He asked, opening the latter and staring down into its contents.

"Yeah," Winnifred vacantly confirmed, more interested in the nature around her. "He did not even ask if they were real or not." 

"Were they?" 

She shrugged. "Maybe. Depends on how you want to look at it." 

Heath sighed and closed the bag. Winnifred took him by the hand, clasping their walk into silence. The weather was dismal, dark clouds engulfing the sky in their embrace. The wind was slightly howling through the trees, crumpled leaves shuffled at their feet. 

"What are you planning to do in life?" Winnifred, shivering from the cold, quietly inquired, moving closer to Heath's side. 

"I'll figure out something," he smiled. "Certainly not what Jonathan is doing right now." At this time, they've reached the lonely hospital standing aloof in the midst of the dark thicket. Winnifred squinted, quickly leveraging some facts onto her internal balance. There were at least three wings, each with three floors and countless amounts of rooms. 

"And?" She flatly asked. "Do you know where he is?" 

"Should be in the emergency room...." Heath murmured, stepping back and estimating the size of the hospital. 

"Alright, the therapeutics are to the right, the psychologists are on the first floor, the surgery is usually located on the third floor in the second wing...." With that, he shoved the sack and bag back to Winnifred and began jogging to the left around the corner.  
"What the hell?" Winnifred rebelled, but Heath was already gone, leaving no choice to her but to follow him. He was already on the other side of the building. 

"Heath!" 

He did not even turn his head. Winnifred silently swore before fixing the bags on her shoulders and running up to him. Heath was standing in front of the wall and contemplating the windows on the third floor. Winnifred loosened to walk and stopped next to him, staring at the windows next to him. 

"What's wrong?"

"Do you know which window is Jonathan's?" Heath asked, not answering to her question. Winnifred whirled her head to the windows, then back on Heath. 

"Do you?" She retorted, annoyance getting the better of her. Heath growled in return, sensing her exasperation. Shoving past her, he picked up a small pebble off the ground and started aiming at the farthest window. 

"Don't break it," Winnie warned, eyeing his actions. "You tend to destroy everything, don't you think? After all, these windows are not the strongest of their...." 

"Shut up, or I'll actually break them. On purpose." Heath cut her short. Winnifred bit her tongue and turned around. Silently, they watched the pebble clink against the thin glass. No one appeared. Heath grumbled and picked up another one, this time aiming for the window next to the first one. 

"Maybe Jonathan just didn't hear the first time," Winnifred suggested, watching the second pebble fall down, just as futile as the first one. 

"Or maybe you're hitting the entirely wrong windows, I mean, who would make an emergency room on the third floor?" 

"What do you mean?" Heath asked, kneeling down for more pebbles and simultaneously standing up and throwing them. 

"Well," Winnifred started, the sound of her voice mixing with the soft clacking of the window glass and the low thuds of pebbles hitting the damp dirt. "If you break your leg, you wouldn't just go marching up the staircase, right? I mean, what idiot does that...." 

"To begin with, no one would even go to the hospital if they've broken their leg. Secondly, don't expect a lot from the idiots who live in this town and built this hospital." Jonathan leaned out of the window, looking down at the people below him with apparent disapproval. 

"Heath, for your information, it's always the seventh window." 

"Johnny!"

Heath broadly grinned, before quickly looking back and sharing a knowing glance with Winnifred.

"C'mon! Let's go!" A rare glimpse of sunlight flashed on Jonathan's glasses. 

"I can't," he said, almost reluctantly. Winnifred held back her groan. This wasn't new. 

"God damn you, Crane, let's go. I brought refreshments," she added, lifting up the bag with beer. She swore she saw a smirk. This also wasn't new. 

"Freddie, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you in the sense that you cannot bribe me with alcohol..." 

"Oh, Johnathan, stop being an ass and let's go," Heath impatiently gestured with his hand. 

"It's not like you're doing anything important!" 

Winnifred knew that during the week, no one would ever get Jonathan out of the building. However, Friday was his half day, meaning that Heath and she still had a chance of luring the intern out. When Jonathan looked back in doubt behind him, Winnifred knew they won. She nudged Heath in the arm, indicating their victory. He hastily answered with a small nod and arched back his head to look back at Jonathan. 

"Well?" He inquired in an offended, obviously faked, tone. "Are we going with you or what?" 

"I'll come," Crane agreed, trying to cover his defeat under a facade of forced resignation. But Winnifred heard the immense relief in his voice. Heath triumphantly clutched his fist and let the unneeded pebbles fall out of his palm. He rested his hands on his hips, examining the ground with his shoe, waiting in anticipation. While she waited, Winnifred re-positioned the bag on her shoulders. The back doors swung upon, shaking them both out of apathy. Jonathan ran towards them, cleaning his bloodied hands with his once perfectly white apron. 

"Afternoon," he greeted Heath, the latter shortly slapping him on the shoulder. 

"What's up, Freddie?" He nodded to the girl, looking most utterly disgusted.

"Do you even wash your hands after a surgery?" She answered, scanning his tainted clothes. Jonathan simply smiled and took the plastic bag out of her hands. 

"Heineken?" He lifted his stare up on Winnifred. She shrugged. 

"There was only Sammy on the market. Had to take what was there." Jonathan seemed content with the answer and shoving one hand into his pocket, turned to Heath.

"I have only two hours."

"Then we shall get going," Heath replied, slyly twisting his face. "C'mon, let's get out of here, before I vomit from the sight of the hospital."

****

"Why don't you like hospitals?" Winnifred asked, topping the bottle back and forth between her hands. She had not drank three fourths of it, but Heath already saw the upcoming haze in her eyes. Prior he simply watched with amusement how she gets herself drunk, swinging back and forth more sharply each time and slightly fidgeting with words. Jonathan also noticed the first symptoms; the way his fingers, curled around the bottleneck, tapped the glass betrayed his growing concern. 

"Why don't you like spiders or snakes, Freddie?" Heath merrily asked, thinking how much Winnifred will hurt herself if she topples off the windowsill. 

"Or why does Johnny hate people in general? It's a pure instinct, Freddie, something that subconsciously....purrs in us, quietly murmurs in our ear, until it....bursts!" 

Crane cast Heath a dirty look; obviously, Heath's syntax of long sentences did not slip his awareness. He silently stood up and while Winnifred furrowed her brows, trying to understand the answer, carefully pulled the bottle out of her hands. Winnifred followed it with her eyes, but did not argue. Instead, she lay down on the wooden floor and stared upwards. Heath, without losing his criss-crossed position, shifted over to her side and began braiding her loose hair. 

"Heath?"

"Hmm?" Her hair was extremely soft and easy to braid. 

"Have you ever been to Gotham?" One braid done. Heath, holding the braid in his fingers, leaned over to see her face, locked in concentration. 

"You mean like the city itself?"

"Yeah." 

"No." Heath returned back to his upright position, taking a new dark chocolate lock and entwining it with another one. 

"I want to, though." 

"Don't." 

Winnifred abruptly lifted on her elbow to look at Johnathan. "Why not?" She demanded, trying to tell apart his features in the shadows that loomed over the rocking chair. It seemed that he shrugged, but then Johnathan stood up and sat next to her.

"I went to school in Gotham. It was not a pleasant experience." 

Heath lifted his eyes on Johnathan. Crane caught his gaze, for he did not continue. 

"I haven't lived in the city itself," his eyes bore into Heath's, as if testing whether or not he will reveal anything. Heath lowered his gaze down; the braid he kept constantly twisting was messy and clumped. He hastened to switch the topic. 

"Why do you ask, Freddie?" He asked out of played interest. Winnifred slightly tilted her head and shrugged. 

"I mean, we'll still have to go there anyway. It's like a final destination end point. We'll keep revolving around it, but in the end we'll always come back one way or another."

"Is there only one Gotham in the entire United States for you to go to?" Johnathan bitterly asked. "There're plenty of other places you could..."

"Oh yes, as if we can afford it," Winnifred sarcastically retorted, squinting her blue eyes. 

"I don't know, it's just a premonition I have. Maybe we will end up going to other cities." Winnifred lowered back on the floor. Johnathan rested his chin on his knee, gazing somewhere unknown to anyone, even himself, space. Heath finished the third braid, observing his own work and everyone around. God, he could just close his eyes and see this all over again; them, sitting in a partially destroyed mill, in the dim attic, hay and some old furniture scattered all over the place, Freddie lying down, Johnathan sitting next to her, and himself, Heath, making braids. Heath opened his eyes. 

"Who were you cutting today?" 

"I was doing a brain surgery," Johnathan shrugged. 

"But you hate performing...." Winnifred paused, feeling the seizure coming up to her throat. Heath also paused his braiding, cautiously watching how her face slowly wanes to marble, before some small muscle painfully twitched again. 

"All ri...." Winnifred stopped Heath by raising her finger. He pursed his lips, Crane quickly glanced at his watch to check the time of the attack. Suddenly, Winnifred breathed out, forcing out a semi relaxed smile. 

"Over?" Johnathan confirmed. She nodded, then folded her arms under her head, destroying Heath's fifth braid. 

"It was better this time, really. They always pass well whenever you guys are around. The worst ones are when I'm on a street or something, then it's extremely shitty...So why are you cutting someone when you're a bloody psychologist?"

Her childlike incomprehension brought a smile to the strict face. 

"Because I'm an intern," Johnathan lightheartedly explained. Heath made a knowing face at this, never glancing from his braids.

"Interns do all the dirty or hard work, sometimes both."

"Oh, poor soul," Winnifred sympathized, but quickly specified herself, "The patient, not you." Johnathan laughed, shaking his head, while Heath put the final knot on the braid to keep it from falling apart. 

"The patient," Heath chuckled. "The patient, not you. Damn, did you hear that Johnny? It seems to me that you're ousted from Freddie's sympathizer list." 

"I never knew that I was on one," Johnathan returned, not offended, and taking a sip of beer. Winnifred closed her eyes and broadly smiled, taking the moment in. The wind slightly shuffled the hay across the floor.  


****

It was not Gotham. It was about two hundred kilometres from the city. This place was bare, a plain inside a small dark forest with bare trees. The sky was always sheathed in gray clouds. But Winnifred was right. The people from this town either stayed, either went directly to Gotham. Those who went on neither pathways were never heard of again. Usually because they had nothing to say. Not that the people wanted to hear anything anyway. 

****

The light bulb strained to give off some more light. The basement was thrown in dimness when Johnathan entered it. He quickly scanned the room for anyone's presence, then locked the door. Throwing the keys on the table counter next to the adjacent wall, Crane approached the work desk, piled with flasks and various notes. Sitting down, he glanced over them, trying to find the thought. Strangely, today it was lingering somewhere beyond his grasp. Throwing the pen down in exasperation, Johnathan took off his glasses and passed his hand across his face. He was extremely tired. He had to get out of here. Shoving the chair aside, Johnathan got up and walked out. The grey corridors passed like a blur in front of him, soon he was walking down the concrete steps and into the forest. The dry, brownish leaves crunched under his feet, the cool spring air penetrated his skin like a syringe. Johnathan aimlessly walked on the faded path through the forest; he had nowhere to go, and as far as company, the bare trees were good enough. Suddenly, he thought he heard a light splash. Johnathan halted. Light, almost weightless, splashes, somewhere to the west. Crane involuntarily started towards the sound, disregarding the growing thicket around him. The lightweight splashes became louder. Johnathan fastened his speed, and soon, the low rumbling sound of a brook shook the atmosphere. The trees thinned out, exposing the lonely figure sitting next to the stream. Jonathan squinted. 

"Freddie?" 

She turned around and smiled. 

"Hello," she nodded and turned away again. She cast her arm back and sharply lunged. A pebble rocketed across the water's surface. Winnifred turned around to Crane, following the pebble with his eyes. 

"Come, sit," she patted the ground next to her. Johnathan's eyes slowly transferred back on her. She expectantly waited. Then the corners of his lips slightly curled. 

"Why aren't you at college?" He asked, propping himself up on the elbow and lying down next to her. 

"Dummy, we don't work on Saturdays and Sundays," Winnifred lightly scolded him. 

"Which can't be said about you who works 24/7." 

Johnathan slightly smirked, looking at the water rushing by. 

"I have a night shift." 

Winnifred nodded and sent another pebble. The ripples were almost unnoticeable from the fast current. They sat in a small silence. 

"Why are you always dressed so strictly?" Winnifred asked, resting her head on the tree behind her. 

"Strictly? Do mind to explain yourself."

Winnifred meaningfully stared at his work shirt, loose brown tie, and brown work jacket, thrown messily beside him. 

"Don't you find wearing a bloody suit every day quite tiring?" 

"I find it convenient and fitting to my work," Johnathan replied, tilting back his head. A small shade of a grin roamed around his face. He was obviously enjoying himself. 

"And if you worked as a janitor?" Winnifred persisted, throwing another pebble. 

"Then I would reconsider my garment options." 

Winnifred sighed and lunged a pebble right into the brook. There was a loud splash.

"Any more questions?" Johnathan inquired, merrily watching her from the corner of his eye. They always played this question game, as a method to get him talking. A trite psychological tactic, but Johnathan nonetheless enjoyed it. Winnifred looked down. Charcoal, smooth pebbles shimmered in her palm. She thoughtfully rubbed them with her thumb, then sighed and lifted her head up. 

"How did it feel to kill your grandmother?" She quietly asked. Johnathan fell silent. Winnifred warily watched how his face gradually loses the joke, becoming more serious and distant. His blue eyes darted to her. Suspicion lingered in them. 

"Why do you ask?" His voice was taut. Winnifred felt the threat hovering in it. 

"Just answer me," she averted. Johnathan pressed his lips and turned his gaze away from her. For a moment, he was motionless. Then, he steadily, almost carefully lowered down on his elbows, lying down fully on the crisp grass and resting his head on his arms. His cheekbones seemed sharper from the expression of detachment on his face. 

"After the initial shock and adrenaline of the moment," he started in a flat voice,"I did not feel remorseful, guilty, or even traumatized by what I've done. Nothing of that sort." 

"Then what did you feel?" Winnifred quietly pressed on. Johnathan was quiet for a moment, then shifted a little. Winnifred felt the pebbles slowly slip from her palm and pull down on her fingers. She patiently waited. The current rolled around the rocks, the leaves lightly murmured in the trees. Winnifred loyally waited, moving the pebbles back and forth between her fingers. She waited. 

"Relief," Johnathan quietly said. 

"Just relief?" Winnifred specified. 

"Just relief." 

"And in high school?" 

"That was different," Johnathan cut her short, abruptly lifting up. He rested his hands on his knees and after a moment of hesitation continued in a calmer tone. 

"That was different. That was revenge. Revenge is harbored by anger and results in satisfaction."

"So....you were happy?" Winnifred specified. 

"Yes. Yes, I was content," Johnathan confessed. He lowered his head, apparently lost in memories. Winnifred was also lost in thought, aimlessly staring at the river. Suddenly, she threw all the remaining pebbles into the water and abruptly stood up. 

"C'mon, let's go and look for Heath." She tossed to Crane, already walking away. 

"Wait, wait, hold on...." Johnathan quickly got up and grabbed her by the arm. 

"Wait....why do you need to know all of this?" His eyes were burning with an unkind flame. Winnifred smirked.

"I was just curious." She said, easily freeing her hand from his grasp. "I mean, it's not that I meet professional assassins every day, right? I was just curious about what a professional assassin feels when he assassinates people."

"I am not an assassin," Johnathan quietly responded, starting his way through the trees. "In fact, I am not sure if you can call my acts murder even." 

"Then what are they?" Winnifred quickly ran up to him and stopped in front. He calmly looked at her, both hands in pockets and his jacket hanging on his elbow. 

"Fitting punishment from committed crimes," he composedly replied and resumed walking. Winnifred scoffed, trying not to fall out of his step. 

"Crimes? You call their whims crimes? If I didn't know you better, I would've said that you're a fucking madman!" Johnathan laughed and slightly hugged her by the shoulders. 

"We all are in our way, Miss Lewly, we all are."

****

Heath randomly stalked around the sleeping village. The shadows stretched across the road, engulfing the lonely figure within themselves. Heath did not have a home; usually, he would stay a night or two at the dorms, but mostly he would stay awake. He did not like to sleep. It was a waste of time. Besides you could see more things in the dark.

Heath sharply turned the corner. The alley was pitch black. Heath continued walking, undisturbed by the blindness around him. He knew this alley by heart. His foot collapsed into a small hole in the road. Heath gritted his teeth to withhold the pain in the twisted ankle. Damn it, apparently not by heart.....Heath stopped by a small cottage and arched his head up. The lights on the second floor were off. Shit. Heath quickly looked around and noticed some old crates and a stool lying around for garbage pickup. Thank god he has never suffered from the lack of creativity.....

Margaret Houston was walking in the corridors when she heard some commotion in her room. Befuddled, she stopped. Someone was softly tapping on the window frame and calling her cousin. Margaret was never of the coward sort, so she barged right into the room. 

"Who's here?" She cried. At the sight of her, Heath lost his balance and the stool, first crate, second crate toppled over and on him. He harshly hit the ground, breath sharply knocked out. Heath winced, lifted his head a little, before collapsing back again with a rough exhale. The window above him opened, and a red haired woman looked out of it. 

"Damn it," Heath coarsely made out. Quickly rolling to his side, he staggered up and continued his way down the alley, not paying attention to the woman's exclamations. Obviously, Freddie was not in the mood of talking with him today. Oh well. Didn't she say that Johnny had a night shift today.... 

With the first step, Heath felt the world turn in front of his eyes. Breathing hurt his lungs and the ribs felt as if they've been hammered and pounded all over. Trying not to lose his consciousness, Heath reeled from one side of the street to another; if he did not know better, he would've thought that he's drunk. The cold wind helped him regain his senses. By the time he made it to the hospital, Heath fully recovered and was now confidently marching up the hospital steps. His confidence quickly snapped to displeasure when he entered the building. How he hated hospitals. God damn it, how he hated these bloody hospitals..... Heath quickly scanned the room, stopping his gaze at the reception desk. Behind it was a nice-looking young girl with dyed blonde hair. Perfect. Heath quickly tugged off his small pony tail and made an uncertain face. 

"Excuse me...uh, I am not sure that I am correct, but does, uh, Johnathan Crane work here by any chance?" He started in a hesitant tone, approaching the receptionist. The girl lifted her long lashes and stared at him with her crystal green eyes. 

"Johnathan Crane?" She repeated. The badge on her dress read Evangeline Clarke. Heath hastily turned his gaze away from it. 

"Yes, I've heard he's a good psychologist," he stated and grinned. Clarke quickly looked away. 

"I'm afraid you won't be able to see him, sir, he's just a intern," she stuttered, reddening in her cheeks and neck. Heath pretended to look utterly heartbroken.

"No? But, Miss Clarke," at this words the flattered girl smiled and looked down. "I need to see him, I have hallucinations due to....due to....due to my fear of...uh....clowns. I learned that Doctor, excuse me, Doctor-To-Be Crane particularly specializes in phobias. Please, Miss Clarke, may I see him?" The girl was cracking, that was clear. Heath added some more drama to his expression. That should be enough. 

"All right, but you'll have to sign in," she finally yielded. 

"No problem, Miss," Heath easily agreed, whirling the pen in his hand and grinning with his entire face. He wrote in a sprawling handwriting, constantly glancing upwards at the embarrassed girl and laughing to himself. 

"If you will," he gallantly handed her the form. 

"Thank you," Clarke smiled more heartily. "No, if you please wait just a little...." 

"There's no need, Miss Clarke," Heath eagerly turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Crane, on his part, did not look as uplifted. Wiping his hands on his aprons, he crookedly glanced at his grinning friend, then turned his attention at the squirming receptionist. 

"As I happen to be free, miss, I would gladly take this man for an appointment." He might as well say that he would gladly cut me, thought Heath. The girl seemed to think the same thing, judging by the horrified expression she had on her face. But Crane was already walking away. Heath sent Clarke a reassuring wink and ran after the intern. 

"Hey, Johnathan!" He called after his friend. For some reason, he was feeling especially giddy this night. 

"What?" Johnathan did not even turn his head. Heath smirked. 

"Do you know why the scarecrow received a Nobel Prize?" 

"Well?" 

"Because he was absolutely outstanding in his field!" Heath proudly declared.

"I'm flattered." Johnathan's voice did not sound flattered at all. Heath broadly grinned. Johnathan quickly unlocked a little door in the end of the corridor and nodded his head. 

"Go inside. This is a room for mentally unstable patients. There's a bed and a washbasin. Should be good enough for conservatives like you."

Heath took a look in. Crap. He looked back at Crane. 

"Mentally unstable?" He sneered. "Could've just said madmen. That's not how you treat a friend, Johnny, not at all." 

"What did you expect, Heath?" Johnathan impatiently replied, tapping his fingers on the door's surface. 

"Well, do be absolutely honest, I was hoping for some sort of conversation," Heath matter-of-factly confessed. "Freddie was sleeping, and I didn't want to wake her up, and since you have a night shift and are seemingly free, I though I can make use of your company." 

Johnathan slightly narrowed his eyes, examining Heath. After a brief silence, he jerked his head in an invitation to follow him. Heath happily followed. Johnathan quickly led him to a small room, let him in, then firmly closed the door behind them. Heath glanced around. Four white walls, a recliner for the patients, a few cabinets and health posters. Heath came up to the recliner and jumped on it, still looking around. 

"Well, can't say that this is a king's room," he whistled. "But no matter. I'm a man of small taste." 

"Fortunately," Johnathan added, rummaging in the cabinets. He stood up and turned back to Heath, kicking the cabinet doors shut with his foot. In his hands were a bottle of whiskey and two small cups used for taking analysis. 

"Here." He placed the bottle and the cups on the movable tray in front of astonished Heath. 

"Since you came, I could use the moment to take a small break."

"Did you cut the wrong way or something?" Heath managed out, dumbly watching how Johnathan pours the whiskey first into one cup, then into the next one. Never, never in his life has Johnathan Crane taken a break on his own. Ever. 

"What bloody happened?" 

Johnathan just smirked and shook his head. 

"Your well being," he lifted his cup. 

"Not," Heath grimaced, suspiciously sniffing the cup. "Just to clarify, what do you do with these again?" Johnathan did not answer. Instead, he gulped down the entire drink and made a wry face. When the eyelids behind the glasses opened again, Heath was already flipping through medical documents left on the tray.

"Let's see, Kyle Hemingworth, suffering from increased sense weakening.....Clara Pitcher, schizophrenia third stage, god, I just imagine her, this mad eyed bitch, Marco Capone, depression, borderline personality disorder, well, well, well....Ferguson....bipolar disorder, oh my......delirium....more psychosis..." Heath glanced at Johnathan above the papers. 

"Are you, by any chance, playing masquerade with your patients? Any mad doctors coming to mind?" 

"No," Johnathan smiled, coming up to the window with his cup. The darkness outside seemed to lean on the windowpane. The bright hospital light flicked with a barely audible moan. Thunder rumbled outside, followed by rain. The two man drank their whiskey in silence, Heath flipping through the medical records, Johnathan staring into the darkness. 

"It's very interesting to observe them," Johnathan finally spoke, tracing the raindrops on the pane with his blue eyes. 

"They seem to lose any logical string which ties the humans together, and yet they are smarter than us all. Maybe because they see the human mind from a different perspective. Certain cases, of course. Other, less chaotic and unpredictable, cases just bring boredom to the specialist." 

"What if I went mad?" Heath proposed, taking another gulp from his whiskey. "Would I be a good exhibit to Doctor Johnathan Crane?" Johnathan turned around. 

"I find you interesting enough in your senses," he said, walking up to the tray and setting his cup. "It would be quite something if you indeed went mad." Heath smirked and returned to reading his records. 

"Are you still developing your fear toxins?" he asked a few moments later, reminded by a patient who apparently suffered a nervous breakdown from chemical exposure. 

"I try to," Crane sat down on the only chair and took off his glasses. Wearily, he rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Not enough time, though." 

Heath nodded, resuming his activity. 

"By the way, did you tell Freddie about my grandmother and high school?" Johnathan suddenly asked, sending Heath a loaded look. That one shrugged. 

"You don't feel sorry, thus you don't feel ashamed. If you're not ashamed, then there's no wrong in telling about it." Heath gave Johnathan a pointed stare. 

"Besides, our friend should know who is who." Johnathan sighed and closed his eyes. Heath turned the next page. 

"Alright, time to go," Johnathan abruptly stood up. Heath hurriedly shut the documents together with a bang and hopped off the bed. 

"Time to go," he repeated, mimicking a high, childlike voice. Johnathan just shook his head and led him back to the room. It was the room where most patients experienced nightmares and hallucinations. Heath slept his soundest sleep there. 

****

"Margaret! Margaret! Damn it, Margaret, what happened?" Winnifred walked in in her nightgown, hair disheveled, gripping a hairbrush in her hand. Margaret turned away from the window to look at her cousin. 

"There was some guy calling your name," she explained. "He climbed on some junk." Winnifred came up to her and glanced out the window. The empty road was illuminated by moonlight. She whirled back to her friend. 

"Well, whoever it was, he's gone," she passed by Margaret, who hurried to see for herself, and got into her bed, pulling the covers over her feet. 

"But I swear, he was there," Margaret sounded offended. 

"I'm sure you did," Winnifred patiently replied, rolling on her side and plopping her head on her hand. "How did he even look like?"

"I....I think he had.....long, blonde hair...." Margaret wrinkled her brows, trying to remember. "In a ponytail..." 

"Then it was probably Heath," Winnifred flopped back on her back. Margaret also got into her bed and was now curiously listening to her cousin. 

"Heath? The one who always wins in cards? The handsome one?" 

Winnifred laughed. "Handsome? Why, Margaret!"

"At least that's how Jennifer described him," Margaret embarrassingly tried to vindicate herself. 

"And how did you find him? In those few moments you saw him?" Winnifred joked, merrily observing how Margaret turns a lovely shade of pink. 

"Well, I don't spend entire days with him, so I can't say," Margaret crossly grumbled, pulling the blanket up to her chin. 

"And I never judge my friends by their facial attributes, so I can't say either," Winnifred teasingly concluded and quickly reaching out, whirled off the kerosene lamp. The room collapsed into darkness in a quick flicker. For a while, the girls lay in silence, each in their own thoughts. Winnifred ruined it first. 

"You know, I never thought about it, but Heath is kinda handsome." She heard her cousin give off an exasperated sigh.

"Winnie, you seem to never think about anything."

Winnifred softly chuckled, then carefully turned the kerosene lamp just enough to see Margaret's features. The small kindle seemed to only dense the surrounding blackness around the girls, encroaching them up to their faces, illuminated by the lamp. 

"Margaret," Winnifred gently called. Her cousin patiently waited, resting her face on the back of her hand. 

"You're also handsome," Winnifred suddenly noticed. Margaret scoffed. 

"Thanks," she sarcastically snorted. 

"No, really," Winnifred pressed, admiring her cousin. Margaret gratefully smiled. 

"You see, I never regard my friends from a....you know, uh...." Winnifred grimaced, trying to find the right words. 

"Girlfriend perspective? Is that what you call it?" She expectantly looked at Margaret, who indifferently shrugged, waiting for further explanation. Winnifred pressed her lips, desperately trying to convey her feeling correctly. 

"I've known Heath since he first came to this town, which is when I was seven, and Johnathan since...." Winnifred suddenly lifted up on one elbow, intently staring into the space before her. Margaret silently followed her with her eyes. 

"Since he came here eight years ago for med school, which means that I was...I was....fifteen! Yeah, I was fifteen, Heath was fifteen, and Johnny was eighteen!" 

Winnifred lowered back down, appalled by her calculations and abruptly turned off the lamp. Margaret heard her ruffling around in bed, then a muffled "shit". Suddenly, the shifting stopped. 

"Winnifred?" Margaret uncertainly called. Winnifred did not answer. Margaret blindly groped around for the lamp, and, when she finally turned the bloody knob, saw that Winnifred's face was porcelain white and motionless. Two crimson rivulets of blood streaked from the corner of her lip and right nostril. 

"Shit," Margaret swore and hastily jumped off her bed and to her dresser, jerking out drawers in search for a handkerchief. Pearls, gloves, hats, ruffles, fishnet stockings, perfume, powder..... 

"Shit, shit, shit!" Margaret flung the drawer closed. A small piece of cloth fell from the top. Double shit. Margaret quickly grabbed the handkerchief and ran up to Winnifred. Carefully sitting next to her, she diligently wiped away the streaming blood and waited. And waited. A minute later, Winnifred blinked, the pallor slowly faded away, and the girl heavily sighed. 

"Stupid genes." Winnifred snatched the handkerchief from Margaret's hand and started to brutally wipe the blood from her face. 

"You should really go to the doctor," Margaret worried. After Winnifred did not respond, Margaret continued to press on.  
"Seriously, he'll give you some pills and you'll..." 

"For God's sake, I'm fine," Winnifred angrily interrupted her, unsuccessfully swatting her hair from her face with one hand. The other one clutched the bloodied handkerchief. 

"It's just a little short circuit I have every now and then, sometimes resulting in a bloody nose or something...." 

"But what if the stupor continues for a long time...." Margaret attempted. 

"It's congenital shit, and those doctors won't give me anything! I know, Maggie, my parents would drag me every bloody time I have this, and the doctors would just fucking scratch their head and send us home! Now, go to sleep!" Winnifred furiously slashed. Abruptly switching off the lamp, barely breaking it, she turned on her other side and pulled her covers up. Margaret stood a little in hesitation, then too got into her bed. 

"It won't end well, Winnie," she tried one last time. 

"Good night," was the gruff answer. Margaret sighed and turned around.


	2. Part 1: Gotham Outskirts - Chapter 2

The sun was unusually scorching for March. But then again, all the snow was already gone. The sun was too hot however. Especially when you stand directly under it for three hours straight just because your friend desperately needed to buy some shit. At least, that's how Heath thought, impatiently waiting when Winnifred would finally choose between the two identical necklaces for her aunt. 

"Heath," she called him to her side for the millionth time. "Which one do you think is uglier - the one with the red opals, or the one with the blue?" 

"They both look horrifying to me," Heath confessed. 

"Blue looks horrid on her," Winnifred muttered to herself. She took one more look at the necklaces in her hands and finally handed over the red one.  
"Alright, I'll take the red one. How much does it cost?"

Heath took the moment to look around. The flea market was flooded with people, all pushing and shoving each other with their elbows and endless amounts of bags and baskets. Shit, Heath thought and turned back to Winnifred. She finished paying the seller and was now counting cash. 

"Ten, fifteen, seventeen, twenty, twenty five." Winnifred sighed and shoved the change into her pocket. "Okay, where do you want to go next?" 

"I don't know..." 

Heath trailed off, noticing that Winnifred was already touching the silk shawls at the next stand. 

"Hey, do you mind if I go around a bit?"

Winnifred nodded, wrapping a tender pink shawl around her shoulders. 

"How do I look?" 

"Gorgeous," Heath smiled. Winnifred's lips slightly curled, yet she ripped the shawl off and began examining more of the sort. Heath smirked and went on, examining different stands while dodging from the current of people. He stopped at the stand which displayed various forms of guns. Glancing sideways at the owner, Heath picked up a handgun and traced its surface with his thumb. With a sigh, he placed it down and walked away, hands in the pockets. The market was huge, almost the size of an entire village. There was an uncountable amount of stands exhibiting almost everything which the mind could think of, starting with food and ending in various technological gadgets and instruments. Heath had no idea how Winnifred would find him now, but nonetheless continued on his way. Next to one stand, by the way it sold musical instruments, Heath thought he heard something strange. Glancing behind the stand, he noticed Johnathan and another man, very much looking like some street scum. 

"Your money, sir?" The scum expectantly held out his hand. Johnathan silently reached into his pocket and handed him a wad of money. The scum quickly flipped through the dollars with his sticky fingers and broadly grinned. 

"Your medicine, sir." Johnathan took the tube with liquid in it and carefully brought it to his eyes. 

"This is for sure dopamine?" He asked, rotating the tube with his fingers. 

"Yes sir." The scum grinned with his toothless mouth. "Took me a while to get it, all right."

Johnathan quickly glanced at him and dropped the tube into his breast pocket. The scum quickly bowed and disappeared among other stands. Johnathan followed him with his eyes, before taking out the tube again and observing it in the light. 

"Speculating, aren't we?" 

Johnathan quickly glanced upwards to see Heath, leaning on the stand and chuckling in amusement. 

"I need it for my experiments," Johnathan calmly replied. He stepped out of the shadows and stopped beside Heath. 

"You can't even get a simple drug in this goddamn village." 

Heath smirked and turned away to look at the flow of people passing by. The current seemed even more chaotic from the small alley that was between the stands. Heath turned back to Johnathan.

"When does your internship end?" 

Johnathan vaguely jerked his shoulder, watching the people. 

"Around autumn. It has not been a full year yet." 

"And then?" 

Johnathan took off his glasses and began wiping them with his shirt. 

"Probably work at Gotham. Why do you ask?" 

Heath smirked and heavily sighed. 

"Your plans make me more aware of how hopeless my situation is right now." 

"Guys! Hey!" 

The men turned around. Winnifred was waving to them at the other side of the river of people. She dodged right into the middle of the current, knocking and getting knocked, squeezed between a fat, old lady and a racing cart, and stumbled at Heath and Johnathan's feet. 

"Holy shit...." She grasped Johnathan's hand, trying to catch her breath, then jerked her head, tidying her messy hair. 

"Thanks," she fixed the multiple bags she had on her hand and broadly smiled to guys.

"So? How are ya?" 

Heath exchanged glances with Johnathan, quietly laughing under their breath. 

"We're fine. How did you find us in this hellfire?" Heath smiled. Winnifred swatted his question with her hand, intently scrambling through her bags. 

"I know this place by heart, I drag here every single year...." She took out a pink shawl, the same rosy shawl that she tried in front of Heath, and tied it around her neck. 

"So this one won after all?" Heath joked. Winnifred teasingly pushed him and turned to Johnathan. 

"Well?" She expectantly asked. 

"You look lovely," Johnathan smiled. Winnifred brightened up and took both guys by the arms. 

"So? I've went through everything. Let's go?" 

The sun hid behind the clouds when they walked back home from the market. The dusty road sighed beneath their feet, it was getting cold, but they didn't care. Teasing and joking around, they did not seem to be tired by the five mile distance between their little town and the bazaar. The wind trifled with the rosy shawl on Winnifred's neck, Heath was constantly making dumb jokes, and even Johnathan was smiling. Suddenly, Winnifred lifted up her finger. 

"Listen," she said. They quieted. Heath unsuccessfully tried to catch anything in the atmosphere, however he heard nothing except the wind and the ruffling plains around them. 

"Honestly, I don't..." he started. 

"Hush," Johnathan crossly shushed him. "Someone's coming this way." Heath pressed his hearing and he did hear something, much like a wagon, moving along the road. But he also heard something else. Screams. They turned around and watched the horizon. Soon, a black silhouette appeared, rapidly coming their way. The trio stepped aside. Past them drove an old wagon with a faded red cross painted on its side. Inside, there were five men holding a tied, bulky teenager. The latter was screaming and kicking his captives, his red face horridly distorted with hatred and madness. The men could hardly keep him pinned down to the wagon's bottom, sweat profusely streaking down their hard, red from effort faces. Winnifred, Heath, and Johnathan silently watched the wagon pass by, following in with their eyes. 

"What do you think happened with....him?" Winnifred quietly asked, still looking after the wagon. Heath shrugged. 

"Probably got rejected." 

"That was a bad joke, Heath," Winnifred sadly smirked and turned around. 

"He's probably heading to the hospital," Johnathan added, wrinkling his brows as he traced the wagon with his eyes.

"He may be even put into a ward." 

Winnifred shivered and looked one last time the way the wagon headed to. The screams still echoed in the distance. 

***

Johnathan quickly walked in the white corridors. Dr. Collin ordered him to attend to the madman who they saw yesterday. Johnathan was extremely interested to see the cause of the man's madness, as well as its extents; as he predicted, the man was indeed placed into a psychiatric ward. Crane opened the door leading through the reception and walked in. Stopping at the reception desk, he roughly tossed Clarke a permission slip. 

"I need the keys to the psychiatric ward number three," he sharply ordered her. 

"Preferably right now."

Clarke looked at him with wide, frightened eyes and mumbling some excuses, starting searching through drawers and papers. Johnathan meanwhile glanced behind him; the room today was completely filled. Johnathan thoughtfully drummed his fingers on the counter-top, then turned back around to Clarke. 

"Well?" 

"I'm sorry, sir, but Lewis is getting the keys right now," Clarke stuttered, helplessly reddening and lowering her eyes. Johnathan felt a twinge of irritation. Of course. Drunk Lewis forgot to return the keys to the desk. Like usual. Damn it. 

"You can sit right now and wait for him to come," the girl's voice barely made it over a whisper. Johnathan tusked in annoyance and dropped his hand on the desk, making the girl jumped. 

"Very well." 

He took his place at the only free seat available, crossing one foot over another. The old man beside him glanced sideways at the intern, but held back his comment. Johnathan lowered his gaze at his hands, occasionally examining the patients around him. The woman in the farthest seat in the left was definitely to the otolaryngologist, she kept on constantly coughing and rubbing her nose. The decrepit old man next to her was probably going to an orthodontist; his foot was in a cast. Other patients were impossible to tell; they could as well be going to a pediatrician or a cardiologist. The front doors slammed, and everyone's heads involuntarily turned to the sound. Johnathan glanced at the person who just entered. Winnifred shook off her drenched coat and umbrella from raindrops and marched to the receptionist. Johnathan curiously watched her as she filled out some form and discussed something with Clarke. After a moment, she thanked the girl and headed towards the doors. 

"Freddie," Johnathan quietly called her. Winnifred whirled around and saw him. Her wet face lit up in a smile. 

"Hello," she merrily greeted him as she walked up. Johnathan answered her with a smile. 

"Didn't expect the doctor to be the patient." 

"No, no, I'm just waiting for my keys." 

Winnifred nodded, a edges of her lips tipping in a faint smile. 

"What are you doing here?" Johnathan questioned in his part.

"Oh, I just...." Winnifred waved her hand, then gestured toward the receptionist and the doors, "I just...." she stumbled to find the right words. 

"My aunt just wanted me to make an appointment with the gastroenterologist. Since our telephone is broken. By the way, how's our madman?" 

The man next to Johnathan glanced at them. Stifling a laugh, Johnathan tilted his head to take a closer look at Winnifred.

"To speak the truth, I was just heading to him...." 

"Mr. Crane?" 

Winnifred whirled around in surprise. Johnathan sighed and stood up. 

"I have to go. My regards to Heath." 

"Of course, Mr. Crane," Winnifred bit her tongue to keep herself from laughing. Johnathan quickly closed his eyes to maintain his composure, then walked up to the receptionist. A big man with a swollen face and eyes stood by the desk.

"Crane?" He croaked. Johnathan silently stretched out his hand. Lewis dropped the keys into his hand, glaring daggers at the young intern through squinted eyes. Johnathan clenched the keys and straightened his pose. 

"I wouldn't suggest you drinking any further, Lewis," he coldly remarked. The beetle eyes filled with fury and hidden fear. 

"You're no authority to command me, Crane," Lewis angrily grumbled, clenching his fists. Clarke nervously glanced between the two men. Johnathan wearily sighed. 

"Maybe," he admitted. "But that still doesn't stop me from commanding you. Good day, Miss Clarke."

He turned around and left Lewis standing there, too dumbfounded by the intern's insolence to answer. Insolence was always a good tool to use. It worked in most cases. 

Johnathan quickly walked to the division in the hospital which he found the most interesting. Wards. For the mentally unstable. People whose mind took control over body in the most abhorrent and yet remarkable ways. Johnathan would've loved to spend more time here, but of course the authorities decided otherwise. Ward number three was the farthest one. Quite interesting who its patient was. Johnathan quickly unlocked the door and entered. 

His patient was broad shouldered, square jawed, and muscular, despite him being a teenager. His angry dark eyes jerked to Johnathan when he entered the dimmed room. Johnathan slowed down before fully closing the door, taking the moment to examine the patient. The latter defiantly glared at him, nothing left of his previous wild composure. Johnathan sat down opposite of the patient, the smooth surface of the desk separating them. Crane carefully traced the patient's hard features with his eyes; they revealed deep contempt and loathsomeness, deliberately hidden well under the surface. Johnathan slightly tilted his head, never averting his eyes from the patient. 

"Your name?"

The patient squinted, disdainfully scanning the intern head to foot. 

"They sent an intern to interrogate me?" 

Johnathan quenched down a pulse of anger.

"I'm afraid so," he softly returned. "So your name?"

"Elliot, Thomas Elliot," the teenager smirked, perfectly copying the pompous tone of sophisticated individuals. Johnathan sucked on his cheek, deciding from where to set the attack. 

"Why were you sent here, Mr. Elliot?" He softly inquired, at the same time placing his folded hands on the table. Elliot's stare instinctively fell on Crane's hands, before transferring back to his face. 

"I'll tell that to the doctor, Mr. Intern," he spit. Johnathan shrugged.

"The doctor will most likely be concerned with your so-called rehabilitation, management on temperamental issues, and psychological well being, while I am interested in the causes of the mind's disruption, so you might as well tell me why you ended up here," he tiredly notified Elliot. That one seemed confused at these words, befuddled by the intern's obvious scorn to the authority. 

"I refuse to," he finally shook his head, for the first time avoiding Crane's direct stare. Johnathan lifted his brows in bored amusement. 

"Why?" 

"There is only one way to avoid criticism: do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing," Elliot crookedly smiled. Johnathan smirked. Aristotle, then. Very well. He was risking, of course, but it was worth it. Pretending to look tired, Johnathan sighed and took off his glasses, then bore his stare into Elliot.

"Are you afraid of being called outright mad, Mr. Elliot? What if I tell you that I murdered my grandmother, as well as indirectly killed and paralyzed two classmates? As you can see, I'm not in a psychological ward or jail.....rather I am interrogating you. If this acts as some form of encouragement, do speak...." Thomas's eyes widely opened, looking at Crane in disbelief. His features became suspicious, and he slowly pulled his hand, so far resting on the table, back until it dropped beside his chair. 

"You're lying," he finally said, slicing Crane with his eyes in an attempt to find a ruse. Johnathan indifferently shrugged and slightly jerked his head. 

"No," he calmly retorted, leaning back on the chair and folding his hand in front of him. "No, I'm not." Though he'd admit, speaking those words aloud felt unusual. 

"Why did you tell me? Not afraid that I might tell the cops?" Elliot fiercely slashed, skepticism still hovering in his voice. Crane smirked.

"A little, but not very, considering that it will be quite difficult," Johnathan sarcastically looked around the room with his eyes. 

"Considering your current position and assumption." 

"Assumption?" Thomas bristled. 

"You're presumably mentally unstable and thus untrustworthy." 

Elliot defeatedly slouched back in his seat, occasionally throwing Crane curious glances. Johnathan partially closed his eyes and crossed his arms, calmly waiting for Thomas to crack. The main blow was delivered, and it was just a matter of time when Elliot would tell him everything. Johnathan intently watched from halfway closed eye lids how the young man's face melts into uncertainty, fighting with the intuitive feeling to tell someone his troubles and the desire to keep everything to himself. Johnathan decided not to interrupt the process, and closed his eyes. 

"Sir?" Elliot's voice was hesitant. Johnathan abruptly opened his eyes and expectantly looked at Thomas. That one seemed uncomfortable and reluctant, however tried to hide it under the mien of proud defeat. 

"I've....attacked a boy at the summer camp," he admitted. "He did something....I don't remember what now which made me lose my temper." This time it was Johnathan's turn to stare in disbelief. 

"That's it?" He skeptically raised his brows. Thomas grimaced. 

"Not exactly. That wimp is in the hospital right now, with broken ribs, arm, and face." Johnathan couldn't hold his lips from crooking. Raw strength. How casual. The case suddenly became boring. 

"The teachers found my outburst mad," Elliot continued. Suddenly, his face twisted in fury and hatred. 

"But I am not mad," he gritted through his teeth, hands involuntarily curling into fists. "No more mad than the people who made me so." 

Johnathan glanced over Elliot's wild expression, apathy melting away into distorted interest. 

"People, Mr. Elliot?" He quietly asked. Thomas transferred his scorching gaze onto the intern. All of a sudden, the silence was cut by a slicing knock in the door. Johnathan silently swore under his breath. 

"Excuse me," he said to Elliot and walked over to the door, putting on his glasses again. Thomas silently followed him with his eyes. The wrinkles on his forehead revealed his contemplation of his interrogator, as well as the sudden tournament of events. Crane sharply jolted the door open, barely holding back his irritation. 

"What is it, Miss Clarke?" He coldly slashed, not even trying to hide the anger in his voice. 

"I....I-I....the doctor will be here soon," she frightened whispered. Johnathan heavily exhaled, trying not to let his frustration take over the best of him.  
"Thank you, Miss," he thanked her through his teeth and partly closed the door. When Crane walked over, Thomas stood up from his seat, sensing the upcoming shift of interrogators. Johnathan slightly halted, taking in the teenager's around five inch advantage in height. 

"So, Mr. Elliot," he indifferently stated. "I advise to carry out your further interrogations with calmness and confidence. Possibly regret. It's the best you can do for yourself right now. " Johnathan though for a second, then crookedly smiled. 

"By the way, I am too fond of Aristotle. I find his quote that there is no great genius without a mixture of madness truly suitable." 

Thomas Elliot just nodded. Johnathan turned around and walked out of the ward. The doctor was already waiting for him outside. 

"Well?" He immediately asked Johnathan when that one came out of the room.

"How is he?" 

Johnathan shrugged, fiddling with his keys.  


"A typical case of teenage awkward age...." He lifted his head up and looked directly into the doctor's old face. 

"....With a few irregularities." He handed over the keys to the doctor and walked down the corridor.

***

The morning was grey and moody. At least that's how Winnifred felt. The first and second period lectures seemed to last forever. The professors rolled on and on about things that Winnifred completely lacked the knowledge in; she saw the class losing the interest also: Mark and Riley started a game of chess in the back, Charlotte was applying her eye liner behind the held up textbook, Heath, sitting in a seat in front of her, was hand-signaling Billy across the classroom. Winnifred heavily sighed and carefully dragged out her Dante's Inferno from her bag. Casting sideways glances, she settled the book on her lap and, stretching out her foot, kicked Heath's ankle; _warn me if anything happens_. He lazily showed her a thumbs up, not even turning around. Winnifred made a wry face and kneeled down over her book. 

When Heath leaned back over on his chair, rested his hand on her desk, and started gently tapping his fingers, she was so utterly disgusted and far from regaining her appetite, that she was glad to be distracted. Winnifred glanced up at Heath; he carefully slipped her a piece of paper and whirled on his chair in the other direction. Winnifred leaned over the paper, trying to decipher the handwriting. 

_Pass this to Billie._

Half of the paper was folded. Winnifred immediately unfolded it, only to see lines of code. She cast an angry stare at Heath. That one indifferently twirled in his chair on two legs, but the corners of his lips slightly twitched. Continuing to glare at Heath, Winnifred, not even bothering to turn around, stretched her arm back to Sammy and slammed the note on the desk behind. 

Sammy jolted awake and looked at the note in wonder. Then, understanding the meaning of the written, he quickly made a little paper airplane out of it and sent it to Charlotte. 

It delicately landed right onto her powder. 

Charlotte irritably glanced at the sender and, crumpling the paper into a ball, hit down Mark's bishop.

Mark swore, while Riley showed Charlotte a thankful thumbs up. Quickly scanning the note, Mark stuck it into Jacob's hood. Jacob, reading the newspaper, indifferently fetched it out and tapped Billy on the shoulder. 

Billy turned around in surprise as the paper was rudely crushed into his hand by Jacob who did not even pay attention what he was passing. Billy suspiciously eyed the classroom, tracing the note's pathway; slipped on from Heath to Freddie, slammed down from Freddie to Sammy, sent flying by Sammy to Charlotte, thrown on from Charlotte to Mark, hidden by Mark to Jacob, and passed on from Jacob to the ultimate recipient. 

Glancing sideways at Heath, Billy quickly decoded the message. His full lips slowly stretched into a broad grin. He showed an "ok" sign to Heath and reached down into his pockets. His fingers grasped different objects, trying to find the right one.....a lighter, some weed, an eraser, an old crumpled piece of paper, a cell phone, car keys, an old bullet....his fingers finally felt what they were looking for. 

Pulling out the box of cars, Billy pushed out the deck of cards onto his hand, quickly searching through it. Grabbing one out, he wrote something on it with his messy handwriting. Taking out the gum out of his mouth, Billy rolled it into a ball and stuck the card on it. Slipping the slingshot out of his leather boot, he positioned it in the rubber band, gum forwards, card backwards and, quickly aiming, shot it at the board. The "bullet" did not fly very far, due to the card's large surface area, however Billy was sitting close enough for his gum to hit the the desk in front of the teacher. The class froze. Mr. Hastings bushy brows furrowed into one thread as he suspiciously picked up the inordinate ball. 

"Who did this..." he threateningly bellowed, but trailed off when he saw the writing on the card. The latter impatiently ripped the joker card off the gum, revealing the only word written on it: _Down_. Hastings perplexedly looked down.....

BAAAAAAMMMM!!!! 

The grenade detonated right into Hastings's face, exploding into millions of brilliant colors. The classroom fell into chaos. Some where screaming, others were laughing or swearing, but Winnifred felt someone's hand grasp her wrist and drag her out of her seat and out of the classroom. A whirl of colors passed before her eyes, their toxic smell clogged her throat and lungs, she started coughing, the thought of _fuck I'm going to pass out_ passed her head, but then cold air banged into her face. Winnifred stopped short, trying to regain her senses after such a quick shift of atmospheres. After her sight stopped being as if in a haze, she recognized that she was a good corner away from the classroom and that in front of her were Heath and Billy. 

Both stupidly laughing. 

"What the hell?" She croaked, throat still plugged with gas. Billy chuckled. 

"A great excuse to miss class," Heath explained, watching in amusement how Winnifred grabbed his shoulder to properly cough out. 

"Geez, Freddie, I didn't think you were so prone to gas!" 

"Prone?!" Winnifred blew up in indignation. "Prone?! What even was that?!"

"Alright, so when the old pops lowered his gaze, Heath threw the color bomb. It explodes when it hits the ground. The timing was hella great this time," Billy grinned. 

Winnifred turned to Heath, hiding his hands in the pockets. 

"And did you make them?" 

"How otherwise, man? Borrowed Johnny's chemistry kit," Heath's eyes merrily twinkled. Winnifred hemmed and rubbed her sore throat. 

"It's impressive," she finally confessed, starting towards the picnic area. Heath hurriedly jogged after her, quickly nodding to Billy on the way. The latter held a hand and walked the other direction, taking out his weed in the process. 

Winnifred walked past the picnic area and to the abandoned school church. Heath slightly slowed down, but her pace remained unchanged. Sighing, he followed her in. Barging into the church, he looked to his sides for her. Winnifred took a random bench in the center and was now pointlessly examining the large, broken glass window behind the altar. Heath silently slipped in next to her, thrusting his hand around the bench and behind her shoulders. 

"Quite a strange place to choose for ditching," he commented, observing the window along with her. 

"No one will bother looking here," Winnifred shrugged. "At least it's quiet." 

Yeah, quiet was the wrong word here. Grave silent is a better one. Heath snuggled his face into her wild, dark hair, taking in their magnificent smell. They either smelled of autumn leaves or wild prairie violets. Today, it were autumn leaves. 

"Gotham," he whispered. Winnifred made a small smile. 

"Madrid," she answered, moving closer to him. Heath pulled her over even closer by the shoulders. 

"Dresden." 

"New York City." Heath sharply pulled up and cast Winnifred an annoyed look. She answered him with a sugary smile. 

"New York City. You're on a _y_ ," she most kindly reminded him. 

"I know," he grumbled and turned around to look at the church walls, hoping it would bring him inspiration. They did not. 

"Yorkshire?" He attempted. Winnifred chucked. 

"It's a region, smart one." 

Heath pressed his lips and turned around. 

"Think Japanese cities," Winnifred hinted. 

"Tokyo?" Heath skeptically snorted. "You think that helps?" 

"Fine, think World War 2." 

"World War 2....." Heath sighed and stood up. He slowly walked down the alley. Broken glass and dry leaves crumpled under his feet. Heath stopped right in front of the window. Past the sharp broken glass edges, Heath saw the old oak tree in the distance where students usually hung out. The wind ruffled the shriveled branches, tearing and blowing the leaves into the grey sky. The debris under his feat slightly slid down, driven by the barely noticeable breeze. Some crows cried in the distance. Heath turned around to Winnifred, who answered him with a wordless stare. Heath opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly the church doors slammed open. 

"Shit." Heath duck behind the altar. Winnifred slid under her bench. Glancing out from his graffitied hideaway, Heath saw the old janitor grumpily walking in, suspiciously sneering around and holding a broomstick as a weapon. 

"Who's here?" He rasped, scouring each aisle with bloodshot eyes. "I know you're here!" 

He started towards the center aisles. Heath swore. Winnifred tensed. The janitor was about an aisle away from her, and she was perfectly familiar with the unpleasant punishment. Winnifred carefully started backing up on her elbows, trying not to make a noise. She could practically hear the janitor's breathing when a shrill whistle penetrated the atmosphere. 

The janitor's head sharply snapped up.

Walking past her row, he started towards the altar. Silently thanking Heath, Winnifred crawled out of the cursed aisle and made her way to the door. Carefully standing up, she grasped the door knob, cautiously eyeing the janitor. The latter stopped right in front of the altar, triumphant smile painted on his wrinkled face. Lifting the broom up, he posed to expose the trickster. Heath desperately tried to think his way out of this. Winnifred cursed between her teeth, walked out and slammed the door behind her with an earsplitting bang. 

The janitor immediately whirled around. Heath took the moment to run. With lighting speed, he ran away from the altar and jumped out of the broken window. 

The janitor, thrusting out curses and spit, raced towards the door. But when he jerked it, it did not open. 

Heath tumbled down the ground, laughing and swearing at the same time. With a low smack, he landed flat on the grass, mouth still stretched in a grin and arms stretched out to the sides. The grey sky frowned on him. Thank god Winnifred wasn't. She stood above him, hands resting on her hips, and chuckling at his undesirable situation. 

"Let's go," she giggled, eyes scanning him up and down. Heath theatrically sighed.

"Oh, Winnie, give me a rest," he complained. "Do you understand all the consequences of jumping out the window?" 

Winnifred rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. But she was smiling. 

"Where's that bloody janitor?" Heath finally asked, not particularly interested in what he was asking. Winnifred smirked. 

"I locked him in the church. So I don't think he's a problem anymore." Winnifred made a step forward, and outstretched her hand to help Heath get up. 

"Besides I don't think he can jump from windows and make it out alive," she added. Heath grinned, eyes moving up and down her face. They slowly shifted onto her hand. Winnifred impatiently moved it, inviting Heath to take it. Which he did; only when Winnifred tried to pull him up, he pulled her down. Winnifred toppled down next to him with a small exclamation of surprise. 

"There," Heath said in satisfaction, letting go of her hand. "Now you'll admire the sky with me."

"Heath," Winnifred jokingly scolded, but made no attempt to get up. Heath broadly grinned and turned his gaze back to the sky. For a few moments, Winnifred lay next to him, but soon scooted over to him. Turning on her side, propping her head on the elbow, she lightly dropped her fist on Heath's chest. 

"C'mon, you lazy ass, let's go," she gently reprimanded him, looking sideways at his relaxed face. Her fist continued to softly pound up and down along his chest. 

"C'mon, Heath." Heath shifted a little, following the drifting clouds with his eyes. Instead of answering her, he silently took her fist into his hand and lightly squeezed it. Winnifred sighed and turned her gaze away from him. Their idyll was ruined by the janitor. 

"There you are, shameless scums, bloody fools, wait for me to get y'all!" He belched at them from the window. Winnifred and Heath jumped up, as if scalded by hot metal, and raced down to the old oak. They stopped when the church along with its janitor were far from sight. 

***

At one point, Aunt Martha asked why Winnifred never invites her friends to their house. And so, at the first moment possible, Winnifred invited Heath and Johnathan for the nearest Saturday. They surprisingly agreed, and now, her room was looked like a giant tornado, in the form of Margaret, went through it, tossing around dresses, shoes, makeup, blouses, skirts, fishnet stockings, and curses. Margaret hastily brushed her thick hair, grumbling at Winnifred. 

"You just had to invite them!" She grouched at her cousin. Winnifred untroubled fastened her hair with a pin. 

"Oh, don't worry," she smiled to Margaret from the mirror. "They're very well mannered young men, not like those idiots in college." 

"Still!" Margaret sharply sliced with the brush, tearing out a lump of hair. 

"You never invited them before!" 

"I forget," Winnifred shrugged, guiltily smiling. "Here, let me zip up your dress." 

Margaret obediently turned around. Winnifred zipped her dress in abrupt jerks.

"Done," Winnifred slapped Margaret on the back. Her cousin nervously turned around and looked at Winnifred. She wore a simple, gentle blue dress, face delicately rimmed with glimmering hair. 

"You look wonderful," Margaret smiled. Winnifred partly sighed, partly laughed. 

"Oh c'mon, who am I trying to impress? Guys who I've known for my entire life?!" Laughing and shaking her head, Winnifred took the brush out of Margaret's hand and tossed it at the night table. Then, she took her cousin by the shoulders and reassuringly looked into her eyes. 

"All's gonna go great! Trust me. They're awesome guys." 

"Really?" Margaret asked, still a bit unsure. Before Winnifred could answer, a short whistle rang outside their window. Winnifred basically ran over Margaret and leaned over the windowsill. 

"Too bad you don't have manners," Margaret mumbled. 

Heath and Johnathan were outside. 

"Hey!" Heath grinned, noticing Winnifred above. Winnifred just waved. Then, she ran back into the house, storming down the staircase and shouting on the entire house. 

"Aunt Martha!!! They're here!!!"

"Then open up the doors, my child, don't just scream," an old lady winked. Winnifred raced to the doors and, barely stopping, jolted them open. 

"You're here!" She threw her arms across both of the men, hugging them both. All were laughing. Without wasting time on useless greetings, Winnifred pulled them into the house. Inside, she critically examined them both. 

"Why, you did really try," she finally whistled. "Especially you, Heath. Didn't expect a suit any time soon!" Heath just smiled, noticing Margaret standing in the back. He shortly nodded to her. Winnifred, noticing his nod, quickly turned around. 

"Margaret!" She pulled her shy cousin over by the arm. "Guys, this is Margaret, my cousin. Margaret, this is," she gestured towards Heath, "Heath. And this," this time towards Johnathan, "Johnathan. My two best friends." 

Margaret mumbled a quiet hello. However, she did not get to say anything else, as Aunt Martha marched in. After subsequent greetings and manners, the guests were led in into the dining room. At the sight of the table, Heath's eyes widened. 

"Winnie told me that you tend to lack the proper nourishment," Aunt Martha commented, catching Heath's gaze. 

"As you, I recall, don't have a permanent home, Mr. Heath?" Heath quickly glanced at the old woman, trying to hide his weakness. 

"No, it's alright truly...." 

"Yeah right," Winnifred quietly snorted. Heath heard it and shot her a chiding look. She answered him with a mischievous half-smile on her face and sat down at the table. Heath sighed and sat down also. 

The dinner was not at all bad. Quite the opposite. Aunt Martha was a cheerful, optimistic lady. As it turned out, she wasn't nor Winnifred's, nor Margaret's mother; she was the sister of their father and mother, respectively. Margaret was shy at first, but after a few subtle encouragement words from Johnathan, she soon loosened up. Overcoming his initial discomfort, Heath fell into his daily routine of light sarcasm and joking. The only person who did not speak much was Winnifred. Confirmed that her guests feel at ease, she watched them with growing satisfaction and delight. After the dinner was over and the plates were put away, Aunt Martha excused herself, claiming that she needed to visit her friend and for "the young people to take a time for themselves." And they did, moving over to the living room. Heath was sitting on the couch, the glass of wine twirling in his hand. Margaret sat nearby, eyes neatly glued to her neatly folded hands, still not believing into what was going on. Johnathan lingered in the corridor. Winnifred was sitting on the floor, searching through various musical plates. 

"Here we go," Winnifred triumphantly held up a plate. "Found it!" She quickly inserted her discovery into the player and pressed the button "on". Music filled the room. Heath immediately took the hint and, quickly settling his glass on the small table next to the couch, walked over to Margaret. 

"May I....." smiling, he offered his hand. Margaret, hopelessly blushing, took it, and the pair set off into a calm dance. Winnifred beamed at Heath, immensely happy for his (for once) tactfulness. Heath winked at her from across the room and transferred his eyes on his partner. Meanwhile, Winnifred glanced into the corridor. Johnathan was standing there, one hand gripping a glass of whiskey and the other in his pocket, and curiously looking at the wall. Winnifred started towards him. 

"Johnathan?" 

He slightly jerked his head, notifying her that he heard her. Winnifred walked up, leaning against his shoulder. 

"What is it?" She softly asked. He raised his glass towards the photographs hanging on the wall and turned his face to hers. 

"Are these yours?" He asked, smiling. Winnifred chuckled, eyes going from one depiction to another. 

"Yeah," she answered, gaze lingering on one of them. It was a little girl riding a bicycle, two brown pony tails jerking up from delight. 

"Auntie loves to look at these. That's why she made so many." 

"Your aunt and cousin are charming people," Johnathan quietly said, still looking at her with a smile. Winnifred looked down. 

"Thanks."

Johnathan turned his attention back to the photographs. 

"Johnny?" 

"Yes?" He looked back at her. Winnifred gently put her hand on his arm. Her fingers carefully pressed on his sleeve.

"Dance with me," she softly asked, eyes shimmering in the dim light of the corridor. Johnathan looked at her for a moment, then reached his hand out of his pocket and held her back with it. The other hand, still occupied by the whiskey, stayed at her side. Winnifred smiled, fingers locked around his head. Johnathan was smiling, looking down at her with his blue eyes and slowly dancing to the music. Winnifred pressed her forehead against his, fingers slightly pressing against his head. 

"Who could've thought you're such a good dancer?" She whispered before giving a short laugh and shaking her head. She lifted her eyes to see his looking at her with the rare affection he portrayed to the surrounding people. 

"Dancer?" He shook his head. "No, Winnie. I'm a scientist." 

"A mad scientist," Winnifred inserted, tilting her head and mirthfully glancing into his eyes. 

"A mad scientist who puts work above all!" 

Johnathan quietly laughed. Noticing a small bookshelf, he placed his glass and took her waist with both hands. Winnifred closed her eyes, letting herself fall into the moment. Johnathan watched her, partly smiling. Winnifred opened her eyes and pulled away.

"You know, sometimes I imagine I'm all alone," she quietly started, looking past his shoulder. 

"Without Heath, without you. And I get so scared.....I don't remember the life before Heath. I vaguely remember the life before you. But I never remember life fully if either of you are missing." She was quiet for a moment. Johnathan's eyes silently searched her face.

"But then I understand that it must happen some day." She continued. Her eyes filled with unspoken hurt. 

"You'll go along your medical career, Heath will disappear somewhere known only to him, and I will go where my aunt will send me to."

Winnifred stopped, trying to handle her emotions. Johnathan wordlessly pressed his forehead against hers. What could he say? It was all true. When he looked up again, Winnifred's face has gone rigid. Johnathan gently lowered her head on his shoulder, allowing for the spasm to come over. Holding her back, he looked into the space before him, still moving to the tact. He also knew that they will part ways. Of course they would. And Heath also knew. It seemed almost impossible for them not to. By the way how Winnifred shivered, Johnathan understood that the spasm, this time quick, was over. Her hands tightened around his neck. Winnifred hid her face into his shoulder. Johnathan lightly patted her on the back, trying to reassure her. 

"Winnie?" He softly called.

"What?" She raised up, intently looking at him. 

"You didn't speak much at the dinner today," he commented. 

"Oh...." she looked away. "I was enjoying the moment." She turned back to Johnathan. A grin hovered on her face. 

"I was so happy that you guys got together with Auntie and Margaret, " she delightfully said. "You both made a great impression on Auntie, which is quite rare, and you managed to make Margie to talk which is also...." Winnifred trailed off, realizing something. She frowned.

"Did you just use a psychological trick?" She asked, suspiciously eyeing Johnathan. 

"To get me to stop thinking sad stuff?" 

Johnathan shrugged,"It's kind of an old technique, actually." 

"Oh, you!!!...."

Winnifred opened her mouth in indignation, but then thought against it, and laughed instead. 

"You're hopeless!" She shook her head. "Will you ever stop thinking about psychology for once?" 

Johnathan didn't answer, preferring to simply grin. At that time, the music ended, and Johnathan let go of her waist. Winnifred shortly bowed her head, eyes glimmering from pleasure. 

"Whatever you may say, Mr. Crane, you are a good dancer," she commented, and before he could answer, marched into the living room. 

The guests stayed until midnight. As Winnifred climbed into bed, she mischievously glanced at Margaret. 

"See? I told you they don't bite!" 

Margaret grumbled something in return. Winnifred grinned and turned the lamp off. 

***

It was raining that Sunday morning. Heath yawned and poured himself some coffee. After they left from Winnifred's, Johnathan went to his medical dormitory, or whatever he had, while Heath stayed overnight in the old mill. The damp wood boards creaked under his bare feet as he made his way down the attic. Wrapping a small towel around his broad shoulders, Heath walked to the doorway and stared outside, sipping coffee. The rain mercilessly pounded in the ground. The thicket was sheathed in a low fog, giving the latter a surrealistic look. Heath took another sip. He would probably have to stay at the mill for another night. Not that it bothered him, really. He spent entire winters here. Walking back into the mill, Heath placed his cup of coffee on a broken stool and slapped his hands on one of the numerous beams above. What should he do? Johnathan was working at the hospital, Winnifred was probably locked inside by her lovely aunt. Heath sighed, grabbed his worn, shaggy, long coat, and ran out into the rain. 

***

"Winnie, dear, pick up my yarn, will you?"

Winnifred obediently handed over the ball of yarn, which rolled under her armchair, to her aunt. The old woman pulled some string and continued her knitting. Winnifred snuggled into the armchair, sleepily following the quick movements of the needles with her bobbling gaze. 

"Your friends are wonderful young men," Aunt Martha continued. 

"And do refrain from sleeping while I'm talking!" 

Winnifred jerked her eyelids open, jolting from sleep.

"Sorry," she apologetically stretched her legs. They numbly dropped down. "Yes, Johnny and Heath are great friends," Winnifred picked up her aunt's topic. 

"Strange that I never met them before," Aunt Martha thoughtfully mused, clicking her needles. 

"Who are they?"

Winnifred stretched down across the armchair's arm to grab a pillow from the floor.

"Well, I met Heath in first grade," Winnifred plopped the pillow on her knees. 

"He was new in this village. Remember, that loner among first graders? He had this extremely oversized coat, black singlet, and army pants. He still has the coat and the shirt, actually. That's what he mostly wears."

"No, I...." Aunt Martha wrinkled her forehead, eyes focused on the knitting.

"I don't remember him at all. How was he as a child?" 

Winnifred smirked, resting her head. 

"You would've hated him. A reckless troublemaker, little brute, obstinate to the point of foolishness. He would always get into fights with Jack." 

"The Browning's son?" Aunt Martha specified. 

"Yeah." Winnifred paused. "They hated each other. They still do. Thank god Jack moved away to another town." They were quiet for a moment. 

"And what about Johnathan?" Aunt Martha finally asked, finishing her row and turning her work over. 

"Johnny?" Winnifred smirked, watching her aunt's work. "Johnny moved here seven years ago for med school. He and Heath knew each other from some external ties. Apparently, Heath knew a guy from Johnathan's high school, and through that guy Heath met Johnathan....." Winnifred shrugged. 

"However it was, it was Heath who introduced me to Johnathan. He is finishing his internship this fall." 

"Well the both seem to be a very good company to a young lady, not like those in your class," Aunt Martha noticed. Winnifred smiled and looked into the window. It silently cried, raindrops rolling down its glassy cheeks. 

***

Johnathan knocked and entered the ward. 

"Mr. Elliot?" He called. The patient abruptly lifted his head up, dark eyes glimmering. 

"Mr. Crane?"

Johnathan smirked and closed the door, undisturbed that Elliot found out his name. It wasn't hard really; you just had to read the badge hanging on his coat. Johnathan pulled the chair out of the table and sat down. Elliot watched him out of squinted eyes. They sat in a small silence.

"Did you like the visit from the doctor?" Johnathan finally asked. Elliot shrugged his broad shoulders.

"It was like you predicted."

Johnathan thoughtfully clicked his tongue, looking to the side. 

"Well then, let's continue from where we stopped." He shifted his gaze back on the teenager. 

"Last time you mentioned that you were influenced by people. That they, quoting your words, are no mad than you are."

Elliot furrowed his brows, biting his lip in thought and measuring the pros and cons in his mind. 

"You want me to tell you? " He said, judging the intern with his eyes. Johnathan shrugged and leaned back on his chair. 

"I mean, it's always in your best options. Your willingness to collaboration will determine your further state." Elliot snorted. 

"So you are trying to say that my confession will get me out of loony bin?" He raised his brows in sarcasm.

"Every bloody psychologist says that! What makes you think that I would tell you anything?" 

"Do you want to stay here?" Johnathan rudely intervened, finally losing his some of his patience.

"If not, I suggest you, Mr. Elliot, to explain your phrase that you said last time." 

Thomas grumbled, casting angry glances at Johnathan. 

"Fine," he finally admitted. "I was talking about my mother and a former friend I used to know. She's is a very weak woman," he spit down on the floor. 

"That bitch can't stand up for herself, nourished every possible abuse you can think of, just to keep herself these cheap toys you call a lavish life." Unknown to himself, Elliot was getting more and more open as his anger boiled up. 

"She allowed my father to beat me. Tell me, Mr. Crane, can sanity be preserved when your body is dying? Can your mentality possibly come out unharmed when your physicality is destroyed?" 

Johnathan did not answer, thinking something to himself.

"And Bruce...." Elliot bitterly laughed. "His father saved my mother from death. How can I be thankful for him?" He fell silent. All this time, Johnathan was carefully watched his face. When he finished, Crane sighed and stood up. 

"I will discuss your case with the doctor, Mr. Elliot. Even though I find that there is little to discuss on your matter." 

"Can I hope for a release soon?" Thomas sarcastically asked. Johnathan paused at the door. 

"I cannot give you any guarantees. That's beyond my jurisdiction." 

***

Dr. Collin glanced at the intern from his papers. 

"So you insist that Thomas Elliot is not mad?" He inquired. 

"He's about as mad as me, doctor," Johnathan answered. That was the truth after all. 

"And what do you propose?" The doctor frowned. 

"Let him go. The wisest decision so far. His outburst is like your outburst on Lewis when you find out that he drank while on duty." 

"That's not what...." 

"Elliot was probably disliked by some external party, which decided to get rid of him," Johnathan continued to press his point.

"But then we are sending him back to those people!" The doctor exclaimed, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his glasses.

"It's not our concern," Johnathan indifferently moved his shoulders. "We cannot treat him here because he requires no treatment. It's just a waste of time." 

"He did pass all the tests we gave him," Collin thoughtfully muttered under his breath. 

"And he is mentally well, there's no argue about that...."

Johnathan patiently waited for the doctor to make up his mind. 

"Very well," Collin agreed, approvingly looking up at the intern. "Tell Lewis to take care of the matter." 

Johnathan nodded. Just as he was about to leave, the doctor called him back. 

"Crane?" 

"Yes, doctor?" He turned around. The doctor was pointing at him with his glasses. 

"When does your internship end?" 

"In November, sir." 

"Alright. You may go." 

***

The dirt flopped under his barren feet, staining his skin and the hemline of his pants. The cold penetrated his body, crawling under the skin, freezing the veins, and stopping the thought. The wind tore his hair across his face. Heath did not even try to get it out of his eyes, the wind would knock them back again anyway. Vision blurred, he hopped that habit and reoccurrence would bring his feet to where he wanted. He knew everything in this town, unfortunately......

The faint outline of the church started to draw out in the raindrops. Heath quickened his pace, breath painfully breaking out of his lungs, feet skidding on the slippery ground. Without stopping, Heath stuck two fingers into his mouth and deafeningly whistled, shrill cutting his throat. The black umbrellas hovering next to the church wall sharply turned his way. Heath slowed down to a walk, roughly sitting down on an old crate. A small boy immediately placed an umbrella above him. 

"Deal me in," Heath ordered Billy, who paused in his shuffling of cards. That one disapprovingly glared at the addition, but said nothing and simply switched the position of the cigarette in his mouth with his tongue and teeth. 

"Omaha?" Herald asked, a lean student from the humanitarian faculty. He was gripping the umbrella to the point where his knuckles gone white.

"Texas Hold'em," Heath retorted. He broadly grinned and messed the boy's standing next to him hair. 

"Get those younglings something easy to learn, right?" The boy wriggled away from his hand, both shyness, excitement, and pleasure painted on his face. Heath smirked and turned to the players. 

***

Winnifred was washing the dishes after dinner. They had fish. Aunt Martha sat in her rocking chair, knitting needles spinning in her fingers. Margaret snuggled on the couch, watching their little television. The voice of the news caster monotonously mixed with the sound of rushing water. 

"Winnie," Aunt Martha suddenly said,"Are you to be done soon?" 

Winnifred raised her head. "Why?" 

"I need to talk to you." 

Winnifred dutifully turned off the water and took the stack of plates out of the kitchen. Placing them on the table, she took the top one and began rubbing it with a towel. 

"Yes, Aunt?" She lowered the plate separate from the others and took a new one. 

"Your uncle died," her aunt seriously began, straightening in her chair and lowering her needles. 

"Uncle?" Winnifred calmly asked, not lifting her gaze up from the plate. 

"Your mother's brother." 

"Well, I never knew she had one," Winnifred remarked, shortly glancing up at her aunt. Her voice was somewhat taut, as if cautious of what to say.

"He has given me no news of himself, even when they were alive," The towel roughly razed the plate's surface. 

"What am I to do?" 

Aunt Martha pressed her lips.

"We - and I mean you, Margaret, and myself - must travel to his residence. There are some formalities to be made. You don't want his house to be overcome with thuggery?" 

Winnifred quietly smirked, deciding not to answer. A wrinkle quickly shot above her brows, before disappearing again. 

"Where is his residence?" She asked instead. 

"Maine." 

Winnifred quietly whistled. 

"And for how long?" 

"The rest of spring and some summer." 

"And what about my diploma?" 

"You'll do it this week. I've already talked it over." 

"Alright." 

Winnifred took the new, dry stack of plates to the kitchen. But when she came there, she could not hold her feelings. Her arms all by themselves let go of their hold, and the plates went spilling from her hands. One by one, they crashed to the floor, splitting into a million pieces, flying in all directions. For Winnifred, the crash was deafened by the beating of the hammer in her head, but the others heard it. 

"Winnifred!" Aunt Martha stopped right behind her. Margaret looked scared behind her shoulder. 

"Winnifred, what did you....." 

"I had a spasm," Winnifred turned to her aunt. Her face melted to regret and slight confusion. 

"I-I...I'm sorry. I'll clean it right now." She lowered down to the floor, picking up the cracked plates, ignoring her aunt's stare. She heard her sigh behind her and by the shuffling of the dress, understood that she left. Winnifred was alone. Passing her hand over the broken china, she felt how the little splinters sharply cut invisible lines  
in her hand. She lied. She did not have a spasm. It felt nothing like a spasm. If it was, her mind would've went black. And it was pounding with....anger? Indignation? Bitterness?

Winnifred slid the shreds together, their edges roughly digging into the softness of her palm. She remembered her parents. Vaguely, but still. She remembered her father. He would always come late to work. She would run towards him, and he would pick her up. She would always run away from his embrace, running away from the cold of his frozen from the night hands. Mother stayed only as a misty air of honey and pine cones. This stark difference between the two memories then collapsed into a painful blur of announcements, men in black, monotonous speeches, wind, coarse pebble stones, wild hunger, and constant fear.The resentment of an outcast still resided in Winnifred. She disliked news of any relatives. It meant that they were there, they could help her. They just decided not to.

Winnifred messily brushed the splinters into the dustpan. Now this new uncle. She did not owe anything to him. Why should she come? She never knew when he was alive, nor did she really wanted to be acquainted with him after death. 

"Winnifred?" Margaret looked into the kitchen. Winnifred turned around. 

"Margie? I'm almost done." 

"No, you're not," Margaret sighed and squatted down next to her. Silently, she took Winnifred's both hands and turned them palm up. Strings of blood trimmed her palms, crimson drops slowly seething from the cuts. Margaret raised her eyes on Winnifred, who silently stared at her hands. 

"You lied," she quietly said. "You did not have a spasm. I know." 

Winnifred did not answer, wordlessly taking her palms from Margaret's hands. Margaret watched her stand up and tilt the dustpan over the trash bin. The china fragments sprinkled down. 

"Should we carry out obligations to the dead?" Winnifred quietly asked, observing how the broken pieces waterfall into the trash. 

"Even if we didn't owe anything to them?" 

"Well yes," Margaret admitted. Winnifred sighed, and squeezed her eyes right, trying to get rid of the pulsing pain in her eyelids. Once the final splinter slid off the dustpan, Winnifred turned back to Margaret, refusing to look at her. 

"Can you pick up the plates that are more or less intact? Please." 

Margaret bit back a response and did what was ordered. Her cousin quickly mopped the floor just in case of any overlooked pieces. Finished, Winnifred tossed the broom next to the fridge. Margaret watched her leave; her eyes transferred to the broom. Shifting, she went over to the sink, dampened her hands, and then passed them over the broom's handle, washing away Winnifred's blood. 

Winnifred silently stared at her cuts on the palms. How could she be so careless? Better yet, how could she not feel the pain? Winnifred slowly clenched her hands. Needle like pain pierced her palms. Winnifred pressed her lips and unfolded them again. Sighing, she looked out the window. Her dark reflection reflected in the rain-stained glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a side note, Gotham Outskirts is dystopian and backward, which is why it may seem a little unrealistic. For DC fans, there was a Hush (i.e. Thomas Elliot) reference ;)  
> Did anyone guess the two cities, by the way? :)  
> Thank you to anyone reading this, leaving kudos, and commenting! Despite its flaws, this fanfiction is something very signifcant and dear to me. Hope you're enjoying it!


	3. Part 1: Gotham Outskirts - Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the two previous ones. Anyway, HUGE thanks to my one reviewer and anyone else reading this fanfic!   
> P.S. My end note from last chapter seemed to have copy-pasted itself in the end notes, I don't know why. Just regard it as a slight malfunction (i.e. ignore it).

"Alright, you two," Aunt Martha hugged Heath and Johnathan, "Take care of yourselves. Heath, good luck on your seminars." 

"Thanks, Aunt Martha," Heath nodded, casting a glance behind her shoulder. Winnifred silently watched from behind. When her aunt walked away, she slowly approached them. For a while, they stood in silence. 

"Well," Winnifred heavily sighed. "Till then, I guess." 

Heath wordlessly nodded, refusing to meet her eye. Johnathan likewise silently stood, his hands in his pockets. Winnifred nervously chewed her lips, not knowing what else to say. The train whistle gave a warning shrill. 

"Winnifred, don't be long!" Margaret called, disappearing into the train after her aunt. Winnifred waved her away, before frantically whirling back to her friends. People shoved past them, making it harder to talk to each other, as well as implicitly hinting on Winnifred's minute departure. Johnathan's fingers dug into his palm, mind anxiously working. 

"Watch your spasms, will you?" He warned. Winnifred nodded. Damn, this is so bloody ridiculous......

"Oh come here," Heath finally broke, tugging Winnifred into a hug. Winnifred shut her eyes, almost strangling him in her embrace. Then, letting him go, she hugged Johnathan, slightly knocking his glasses to the side. The train gave a final whistle and started moving. Winnifred swore and ran to the entrance. Grabbing the handrails, she looked back at them one last time before disappearing in the train. 

"Let's go," Johnathan quietly said to Heath. That one obediently turned around. They made way through the ecstatic crowd, rushing forward towards the departing train and down the platform. Johnathan quickly ran down the steps from the station onto the dusty road before slowing down to a walk, hands still in pockets. Heath silently walked at his side. 

"How do you think Maine is?" He wondered aloud. Johnathan shrugged. 

"She'll write to us, then we'll know," he answered, lifting his head up from the ground. 

"She won't," Heath instantly rebuked. Johnathan frowned. 

"Why are you so sure?" He asked, slightly furrowing his brows.

"Well, I uh...." Heat stared at the ground, slightly ashamed. 

"I made a bet with Freddie that we won't write to each other. To see...uh, who lasts the furthest." 

"Idiots," Johnathan shook his head. Heath smirked. 

"How otherwise, man? Wanna make your bets?" 

"No thanks," Johnathan dismissed the offer, glancing on his watch. His eyes slightly narrowed. 

"Listen, do you have a free day today?" 

"A lecture, but that doesn't count, why?" Heath suspiciously frowned. 

"Can you come to the hospital with me?" Johnathan said in a flat voice. "I have a job to do, and I need a second person for it." 

"Don't you have nurses for that?" 

"Our nurses aren't quite the fit for this job," Johnathan impatiently explained, quickening his pace. 

"So are you coming or not?" 

Heath shrugged. "Yeah, why not?"

Johnathan thanked him with a tense smile. Heath sighed inside. Here it goes. No thank you's or hello's. At least not until the job is done. The hospital was near the train station, so the walk wasn't long. Johnathan roughly flung the doors open. They smacked Heath back in the face. Swearing, he shoved the doors open and hurried after Johnathan, who was already gone in the corridor. 

"Where are you going...." The receptionist's question was left without an answer as Heath ran past it. Johnathan stopped next to a door and, quickly unlocking it, walked inside. Heath was about to walk in as well when Johnathan walked right back out. 

"Here, put this on," he tossed Heath a white surgical coat and gloves, dressing into another one on the way. 

"How?" Heath crossly threw, twisting the coat in his hands. Crane ignored his question and was already walking away. Heath quickly pulled the coat over himself, hoping it was the right way, and followed the intern. He shoved the gloves into his pocket. Johnathan stopped at another door and walked in. 

"Hold the door," he ordered Heath. That one shrugged and propped the door with his foot. In a moment, Johnathan drove out a movable stretcher trolley. An old man was lying in it. Heath almost let go of the door at the sight of him. 

"Alright, I'll lead the way, and you push him. Clear?" Johnathan glanced at Heath's troubled expression. 

"And do not worry so much. He won't wake up." Heath pressed his lips and took hold of the cold metal bars. Johnathan grasped the gurney by the other side and started walking backwards, occasionally looking over his shoulder. 

"Right turn ahead." 

Heath submissively turned right. 

"Left this time."

Heath turned again. Johnathan turned back around. There were no people in the hospital, making it easier to navigate. Heath quietly whistled under his breath, occasionally taking glances at the old man. He was extremely pale, the skin sagged on his face. He must've been seriously ill, for Heath could hardly tell the moving of his chest. 

"Hey, uh Johnny?"

Johnathan turned his head back around. 

"Yes?"

"Where are we taking him?" 

"To the morgue, obviously." 

"What?!" Heath abruptly stopped. The gurney stopped short, the old man slightly jerking to his side. 

"Could've _at least_ given me a warning."

"It's just a corpse, Heath," Johnathan tiredly answered, pulling the trolley forward. "He died only yesterday evening."

Heath was quiet for a moment, regaining his composure, then started pushing the cart again.

"What did he die from?" He asked after a short while. 

"A stroke. Left," Johnathan ordered over his shoulder. Heath roughly turned the trolley left. They stopped next to large doors. Heath felt a small shiver crawl his spine. Johnathan calmly fixed his glasses and started towards doors, head slightly at an angle. Heath licked his teeth and pushed the trolley forward, hoping that Johnathan knows what to do. 

The cold banged Heath into the face when he walked in. He shivered. The room was freezing cold. The walls were covered in what looked like iron boxes. Johnathan stopped next one of them. Heath watched him enter a code. 1564636. The chamber silently opened. Instantly, cold air burst out and rolled down on the ground. Johnathan tugged out a stretcher like structure. Heath felt a wave of nausea come up to his throat and quickly put on his gloves. Johnathan turned back. 

"Help me leverage him." Heath sent Johnathan a murderous glare and held the man by the ankles while Crane held him by the shoulders. Together, they hoisted him up on the stretcher. 

"Okay, are we done?" Heath hopefully asked. 

"Not yet...." Johnathan took out a small tag out of his pocket and hung it around the corpse's toe. Heath closed his eyes. Of course. He should've known. Johnathan pushed the stretcher with the body back in and shut the door. Heath silently watched him, trying to shake off disgust and the desire to vomit. 

"Who is he?" He quietly asked on their way out. 

"Unidentified," Johnathan tugged the gloves off his fingers and threw them into the trash bin next to the exit. Heath hastened to do the same. 

"Some people found him lying unconscious on the road with a broken hand. Then it turned out that he had ischemic strokes in the past." Johnathan was quiet for a moment. 

"He was my patient." Heath whirled back to Johnathan.

"How come? Aren't you a psychologist?" 

"He was a schizophrenic," Crane shortly explained. 

"And is that why we are burying him right now?" 

"No, it's because the dieter was off duty." 

They parted at the entrance. Johnathan claimed he had more work to be done, so Heath ran to the mill. There was a feeling of awkwardness, as if something was missing. Winnifred.


	4. Part 1: Gotham Outskirts - Chapter 4

Maine was so different. It was almost unbelievable. There it was so dark. Gloomy. Dead, almost. It wasn't very sunny in Maine, but the refreshing sea wind enlivened the scenery. 

The waves shyly licked her toes, not daring to caress the entire foot. Winnifred gazed into the tense horizon, clouds condensing both at the sea and in her eyes. Somehow, this beautiful ocean side aroused suppressed caution and immense loneliness. She desperately wanted to share this beauty with someone. For once, she breached out of the tight circle her life has placed her in, and now she extremely wanted to crawl back in. This is not how she wanted to walk out. Not alone. 

Winnifred turned around and started walking back to her deceased uncle's villa, foam kicking around her ankles. The pebbles rocked back and forth by her feet, rolled around by the wave. It was a stony, grainy beach, not at all sandy as they drew in magazines, and not at all welcoming. 

The villa also did not match stereotypical expectations. First of all, it was not white, instead painted in some grayish color. The rooms were small, stacked with old, creaking furniture that smelled of wood, the entire furnishing itself was like in the 70s. Winnifred walked in, brushing her feet on the mat, and leaned against the door. 

"Where's auntie?" She asked Margaret, who was sorting a stack of DVDs on the floor next to the fireplace. 

"In town for some document business. I didn't really pay attention, honestly." 

Winnifred chuckled, watching how Margaret exasperatedly threw down the DVD she was holding and shove the stack towards the wall with her heel. 

"It's just as boring as it was there!" Margaret complained. Her cousin looked away, staring into the window. 

The waves quietly lulled in the background. 

"Not....not exactly," Winnifred slowly said, eyes aimlessly searching for something. 

"It's just very calm here."  She felt her fingers ache under her back, and she pulled her hands out. Her back banged flat on the door as the support disappeared. Winnifred examined her numb fingers with a perverted interest. Her eyelids jerked up, eyes raising up on Margaret. Her fingers clasped and unclasped in an abrupt movement, hand occasionally turning around on its axis. 

"Did the mailman come today?" Winnifred quietly asked, eyes boring into Margaret. 

"No," her cousin shook her head. "Are you expecting a letter? You've asked the same thing yesterday." 

Winnifred frustratingly clicked her tongue. 

"Never mind." 

She walked past Margaret, shortly stopped in the kitchen, and, with a chocolate chip in her hand, ran up the stairs. Jerking the door back behind her, Winnifred flopped on her bed. Sitting in this dark room, her entire figure slouching and feet loosely swinging down, Winnifred closed her eyes. The sound of the ocean soothed and irritated at the same. Winnifred sighed and opened her eyes, sending the cookie into her mouth. The dough was mushed, the chocolate was tasteless, the entire thing probably of a prehistoric date of use. Winnifred winced, not really caring about the food and fell down on her back. The ceiling grimaced back on her. She did not like this house. It was unpleasant and haunted, making her constantly look around and pass her hands over herself as if in an attempt to not stain herself. 

The front door creaked open, and Winnifred heard her aunt's cheerful voice. 

"Oh, Margie, dear, help me take these groceries and call Winnifred, I have important news to tell her...." 

Winnifred did not wait to be called, so she dashed down the stairs, skidding right up to her aunt. 

"Aunt Martha? How was your trip?"  Winnifred took her bags from her at the same time. 

"Oh, lovely, my dear, I was just at Mr. Baer's house, he's the local jurist, we were inspecting late Mr. Horner's will. It appears that he leaves this entire house to you." 

"Oh joy," Winnifred sighed. "When can we announce that it's for sale?" 

Margaret stifled a laugh behind her. 

"You are not selling this house, Winnifred," Aunt Martha scolded, setting her purse on the counter-top. 

"Not until I see you well off in life." 

Winnifred broadly grinned and, tiptoeing up to her aunt, wrapped her arms around her. 

"Yes, ma'am. Understood, ma'am." 

"Alright, alright, you little flatter-brat, stop fawning," Aunt Martha feigned displeasure. Winnifred innocently kissed her on the cheek and slyly glanced on Margaret. Her sister instantly got the hint, and soon her old lady was hugged by both of her nieces on both sides. 

"You little brutes...." Aunt Martha couldn't hide her smile, stroking them on the arms. Margaret snuggled her head closer on her aunt's shoulder. Winnifred's eyes shone with a happy light. They stood like that for a few minutes.

"Alright, caressed a little and done with," Aunt Martha shooed the two girls off, freeing her shoulder and hands. The two young women, hopelessly chuckling, began taking out the contents of the bags and placing in their places. 

"By the way, Winnie, your uncle's funeral is tomorrow," Aunt Martha reminded, lifting her eyeglasses to read the tag on the milk bottle. Winnifred glanced up from the refrigerator's door. She wanted to say something, but thought otherwise, instead sharing a tense look with Margaret. 

"You have anything black to wear?" Aunt Martha continued, handing the fish over to Margaret. The latter gave it to Winnifred, who thoughtfully tapped her fingers on the fridge door. 

"I....think," she wasn't very certain when she shoved the fish on the first shelf. Aunt Martha cast her a reprimanding look. 

"And don't forget to look very chagrined, my dear...." Margaret couldn't hold a snorted chortle. Aunt Martha angrily slapped her on the arm. 

"Margaret! We're talking about Mr. Horner, god rest his soul!"

"Sorry," Margaret mumbled out, not at all sorry. Winnifred cast her a merry look, quickly pretending to look remorseful under her aunt's glare. Aunt Martha suspiciously scanned the two women over, then heavily sighed. 

"No use with you two....Fine. Do how you think is right." 

Winnifred waited till she walked out of the room, then turned to Margaret. 

"Guess I'm wearing pink tomorrow."

***

It was slightly drizzling. The morning was overcast, with no signs of clearing up. Suppressed, sophisticated grief hovered above the cemetery. Black hair wavering in front of her eyes, Winnifred glanced to her sides. Her aunt stood next to her, wrinkled fingers gripping the handkerchief. Winnifred carefully took her by the hand. Her aunt jolted, then looked at her, trying to make out a smile from the despaired grimace. Winnifred slightly smiled, just with the corner of her lips, and turned her back to the gravediggers. The grave was almost complete.

Many people attended her uncle's funeral. The blue eyes observantly jumped from one person to another. Most of them were elite officials or businessmen, all individuals who Horner had professional interactions with. Winnifred lowered her gaze. She felt that she was also examined. After all, she was the only heiress, an unknown too. The crowd rippled, heads turning to the left. Winnifred glanced there as well. The coffin was being carried. Solemnly, it was lowered down into the grave, gravediggers standing by its side like vigilantes. Watching it disappear beyond the ground's edges, Winnifred felt remorse, late and guilty, clutching her throat. It was her uncle. It was her relative. Winnifred closed her eyes. The sound of the preacher made them open. His words did not reach her mind, stifled by the unwilling tears, dripping down from her eye lashes. No matter how she tried to tell herself that she didn't care, she did. Winnifred was sorry for the man. Her uncle. 

She felt her aunt squeeze her hand. Winnifred blinked, sending another cascade of tears down her cheeks. Hastily rubbing her nose with the black glove, she raised her eyes up. Her hand, still near her face, froze. 

A man, right across the grave, was watching her in straight out astonishment. He was a bit taller than her, had a slightly angular face, hair neatly combed on his head. His eyes, small and brown, were widely opened. Winnifred felt a shiver run her spine. She recognized that face. She would recognize it anywhere. Jack. Jack Browning. 

***

Johnathan thoughtfully looked at the glass tube and the colorless powder in it. This was it. The goal he was striving for since he was a child. The chemical that would arouse fear. 

Johnathan rose the tube up to his eyes, rotating it with his thin fingers. He felt a shiver crawl up his spine. Clutched anticipation pulsed in his throat. He knew how risky it was. But he had to do it. Otherwise he would never know how effective his chemical was. 

The glass felt cold against his lips. Hand slightly shivering, Johnathan tilted the tube, yet hesitated. All he had to do was remember. All he had to do was remember. Johnathan gripped the tube and abruptly gulped the chemical down. 

The tube rolled down the table from the numb fingers. Johnathan shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts together. Suddenly, the sound of flapping wings rang out above him. Johnathan arched his head back and immediately ducked down next to the table, fingers dug into its edge. Blue eyes slowly widened, as a flock of crows, flying above his head, reflected in them. Johnathan almost felt their feathers, racing right past him. The fingers tightened. 

"This is not real," Johnathan whispered, watching the crows fly above him. 

"This is not real....." 

"Really?"

Johnathan abruptly whirled around, standing up. And immediately staggered back, knocking over the chair behind him. It fell behind him with a loud crash. His grandmother, exactly like at the moment before she died, stood in front of him. Saliva dripped off her crackled lips, grey, dirty hair swaying back and forth in front of her wild face. Her wrinkled skin peeled off at the edges, maggots and raw flesh reflecting through it. Thin fingers spasmodically grasped an old Bible, pages crumpling from under their grasp. Her mad eyes frantically ran from one object to another, until they stopped at Johnathan. They filled with blood. 

"You...." she rasped, pointing her long, wavering finger at him. 

"You filthy son of a bitch, our Mighty Lord's curse, let's pray together, as you were told....." 

Johnathan dug his nails into his palm, trying to stay calm. Something lightly hit his foot and he lowered his eyes; it was a torn Bible page. 

"I killed you," he quietly said, taking a step forward. His grandmother continued staggering towards him. 

"My curse, filthy sinner, I will teach you how to disobey our Lord's will....." 

"I KILLED YOU!!!!" 

The glass shattered against the door, exploding into tiny shards and raining down on the floor. The door suddenly opened, a young man looking inside in confusion. 

"Mr. Crane," he uncertainly asked, looking around the room. His eyebrows raised up, as he took in the knocked over chair and the broken glass right at his feet. He slowly looked back at the man standing in the center of it all. 

"Mr. Crane?" The new intern repeated. Crane's eyes wildly flickered to the man in the doorway. His face was extremely strained, trying to regain its composure. Johnathan tensely walked over to the intern and grasped the door knob with extreme force. 

"Yes, Richard?" His voice was husky, as if something held him by the throat. Richard nervously swallowed, quickly scanning the man from head to foot. Beads of sweat glimmered on Johnathan's temples. 

"I-I....I thought I heard someone screaming," He hastily made his excuse. With great effort, Johnathan raised his eyebrows, feigning incomprehension. 

"Screaming? You mean our mentally unwell patients?" 

"I thought the screaming came from here," Richard lowered his eyes. They fell on a tightly clenched fist, fingers white from the strength. Furrowing his brows, Richard glanced back up at Johnathan. The man looked back at him. An incomprehensible feeling laid in the blue eyes, something between hatred and fear. 

"So are you accusing me of screaming, Mr. Richard?" Johnathan slowly said, clutching at the door to support. His eyes narrowed. 

"Do you want to side me with those madmen who are, in fact, just a corner away?" 

Richard bit his lips along with his suspicion. He wanted to press on, but feared for his further safety. With a dry excuse, he closed the door and walked away. 

Johnathan let go of the doorknob, hand shaking, and slowly lowered on the floor. He didn't feel the glass crunch underneath his knees. Slowly, he unfolded his hand, blood trickling on his nails. He almost lost control of himself there while talking to Richard and instead seeing his grandmother. Johnathan shut his eyes, trying to get rid of the hallucinations, but they persisted, pounding on his mind. Johnathan wildly grasped his head, fingers digging into his hair, but the smell of decayed Bible pages, distorted curses of his grandmother, and the sound of flapping wings were still there. Unable to take it anymore, Johnathan abruptly staggered up to his feet. Swatting crows from his way, he swayed towards a white cupboard. Painfully knocking into it, he jerked the doors open, hand searching through the different packages, bottles and tablets. They fell under his hand. Grabbing the bottle with the words FENTANYL on it, Johnathan poured the drug into the lying nearby syringe, messily rolling his sleeve up on the way. Almost losing his consciousness, Johnathan roughly injected the syringe into his arm. His vision darkened as the drug seethed into his blood. The world toppled before his eyes. He did not feel himself fall on the cold floor. 

***

The night was fresh and sweet after yesterday's rain. The trees were soaked in rainwater, the damp twigs snapped less frequently than usual. It was a moonless night. 

Heath nervously waited next to the log, inhaling the cool air. Occasionally glancing on his wristwatch, he paced next to the log, hands clenching and letting go in his pockets. Someone sneezed. Heath abruptly whirled around. Sammy, shivering in his orange vest, shoved through the pine's branches. He was holding, what it seemed, a heavy, plastic bag in his hand. Sneezing once more, Sammy sniffed in and looked around. Heath hastily leaned off the log and approached him. 

"Everything's there?" Heath asked on the way, taking the bag from Sammy and glancing inside. The latter rubbed his nose with his hand, breathing out a cloud of cold air. 

"Evening, Heath. You say it," Sammy added, answering to Heath's question. He breathed on his hands, watching Heath ruffle through the bag. 

"The bloody seminars are in two weeks. Whatcha gonna do?" 

Heath shrugged, closing the bag. 

"Nothing really. Ditch like usual. Here," he handed a wad of money to Sammy's eager hand. 

"Fifty, like promised." Sammy quickly counted the money, then shoved it inside his pocket. 

"Thanks," he broadly grinned. "Alrightie, I'm outta here. See you 'round!" 

Heath nodded in return, following Sammy with his eyes, then glanced at his watch again. Fifteen minutes before two. There should be here any moment. Quickly looking around, Heath walked over to the side, next to the tall pine trees. The branches lightly rested on his shoulders, showering him with raindrops. Heath felt the anticipation pulse in his vein on the throat. The bag's straps painfully cut into his palm, plastic gathering in the middle into one sharp line. Heath sighed, then lowered the bag on the ground. The darkness around shook as a lonely spark slashed the surroundings. Inhaling the smoke, Heath lowered the cigarette between his fingers and glanced on his watch. Five minutes before two. The smoke cooled down in his mouth, as he thoughtfully breathed it out. 

Suddenly, the branches across the place where Heath stood came into motion. Heath abruptly moved back into the brush, eyes narrowing as he watched two men tumble out of the trees, cursing and shaking the raindrops off their shoulders. 

"He's not here," the taller one growled, looking around the clearing like a wild dog. 

"It's not three yet," his companion replied in a calm voice. However, his eyes were suspiciously scouring the place around. 

"I'm telling you," the taller one grinded his teeth,"He was a fucking freak!” He grinded his teeth again. The plumper companion angrily clicked his tongue.

"And I'm telling you to calm down. And stop, god damn you, grinding your teeth!" The taller one growled under his breath, but didn't say anything. Heath quietly snorted, then, crumpling the cigarette between his fingers, stepped out of the pine trees, their branches leaving long, wet streaks on his shoulders. The two men instantly wheeled around, guns pointed at his chest. Heath smirked. 

"Evening, gentlemen. How are you today, Mister Halifax?" Halifax's face twisted from disgust.

"Evening, Mr. Heath," his short companion politely, yet cautiously greeted him, pointing the gun the other way. 

"Do you have what we agreed to?" 

Heath lightly kicked the bag with the side of his foot. 

"All here, Mr. Ryce. Cocaine included for," here Heath smirked, "Mr. Halifax. As you see, I keep my word." Halifax spat down in the ground and began pacing back and forth behind Ryce. The latter cast him a sideways glance before transferring his gaze back to Heath. 

"I too, Mr. Heath. Seventy, as agreed," he said, taking out a wad of money from his leather jacket. Walking up to Heath, he handed it over. Heath, taking a quick look on him, swiftly flipped the bills in his fingers, before raising his eyes back on Ryce. 

"All yours, gentlemen," he shoved the bag forward with his foot. Halifax wildly seized it, searching through its contents. Heath watched him through narrow eyes, feeling both amusement and light pity to the animal. He shifted his gaze on Ryce.

"You know how to contact me," he slowly said. "Send Richie my regards." Ryce nodded, forehead wrinkled. 

"Good night, gentlemen." Not waiting for a response, Heath turned around and walked into the forest, branches brushing into his face. Winnifred would disapprove. Strongly. Yet this was the only way he could steadily support himself. He didn't need much, just some food really. Besides, he wasn't planning on staying a little drug dealer for the rest of his life. Certainly not that.

***

Jack looked away. Winnifred blinked, trying to understand. 

"C'mon, Winnie," Margaret softly took her by the hand. "The process is over. Let's go home." 

Winnifred obediently followed. Her mind was absolutely blank. Not able to hold back the urge, he glanced back over her shoulder. Jack Browning was gone. Winnifred turned back around, anxiously chewing her land. 

"What is it?" Margaret quietly inquired, looking back over her shoulder as well. 

"Did something happen?" 

"No, no...." Winnifred looked back again. "No, never mind...." 

"Excuse me, misses," Margaret and Winnifred whirled back. A wrinkled, sophisticated man stood in front of them, monocle roughly cutting into his skin. 

"Which one of you is Miss Winnifred Lewly?" He inquired. Winnifred and Margaret exchanged a glance. 

"I am, sir," Winnifred finally answered. The old man slightly bowed. 

"My name is Baer, Edward John Baer. I'm your lawyer." 

"Oh, Mr. Baer," Winnifred quickly licked her lips, desperately trying to think of something to say. 

"I-I'm thankful for all the hard work that you did for me...." 

"Thank you, miss, but there's a few matters left still," Baer's eyes expectantly looked at her. Winnifred frowned. 

"There...are?" She dumbly repeated. Margaret stepped on her foot and tossed her hair back. 

"Of what kind sir?" She quickly inserted. Baer transferred his gaze to the red haired woman. 

"Banking, miss. Besides the realty, Mr. Horner also left a sum of money to Miss Lewly. It is to be discussed with Mr. Horner's banker as to which account to transfer the money to." 

"Yes, yes of course," Winnifred agreed, nervously breaking her fingers. 

"Can it be done today?" 

The monocle stared at her in confusion, as the bushy brows rose in surprise. 

"Today, miss?" Baer repeated, glancing at her in disbelief. 

"Yes, I would like to finish it today," Winnifred impatiently replied, fixing her hair out of her eyes. 

"Forgive me, you want to solve such a ticklish matter right after your uncle's funeral?" 

"I do not want to hold it for much too long," Winnifred tiredly replied, looking into the old man's eyes. They softened, as he saw the silent pleading in her look. 

"Very well," Baer agreed. Winnifred managed a small smile and freed her hand from Margaret's.

"Tell auntie that I'm....well, you know what to say," she quietly told her. Her cousin silently nodded. Winnifred turned back to Baer. 

"Well?" She sighed, shoving her graveyard depression off her shoulders. "Where is the banking house? I'm afraid I don't know this city very well." 

Baer gestured to Winnifred. 

"This way miss." 

He led her away from the cemetery to his car, opening the door in front of her. Winnifred nervously got in; she wasn't in cars that often. Our place is really forsaken, she thought once more, passing by shops and working offices. Baer stopped next to a regal building. Winnifred tried to hide her awe, which rolled out of her eyes in waves. Baer, noticing her amazement, quietly chuckled under his breath. 

"Follow me, miss." 

Inside it was even more beautiful than outside. Although the sight of counters, pay desks, and people counting endless money significantly lowered Winnifred's spirits. However, Baer didn't stop at one of them, instead going deeper into the corridors and up the stairs. He finally stopped in front of large wooden doors. A receptionist was sitting in front of them. 

"I'm with Horner's heiress," Baer said in place of a greeting. The young man glanced up at them. 

"The advocate can wait here. And the miss," he pointed at her with his pen, "Can wait in the cabinet. The banker will be here soon" 

Baer glanced at Winnifred and sighed. 

"Thank you Mickie." That Mickie boy hastily stood up and opened the door in front of Winnifred. She nodded her head in thanks, and entered the room. The cabinet wasn't very different from what Winnifred imagined. Large, packed with bookcases, tons of folders with papers. A bit similar to Johnathan's den, actually. Except Johnathan's was messier. And more familiar of course. 

Winnifred curiously looked around. Her gaze dropped on the large desk with two working chairs on each side. With a sigh, she sat into one of them, nervously fiddling with her gloves. She had no idea about banking process or accounts. She just kept everything in her cute piggy bank that Heath gave her for her tenth birthday.

The door loudly opened, and Winnifred abruptly turned in her seat, breaking a few vertebrates on the way. 

"Sir, my name is...." the words withered in the back of her throat. 

"Winnifred Lewly," Jack quietly finished for her. "Yes I know." 

He softly closed the door behind him and, walking around the desk, sat across Winnifred. She silent watched him. Her face was blank. 

For a while, Jack just sat there, examining her. Winnifred stared down at the rich, oak wood table, trying to determine how to act. He did not change much. Still that angular, unattractive face, yet it was virile and not at all the face of an angry teenager. 

"I am sorry for your loss, Winnif...Miss Lewly," Jack finally said. Winnifred shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. 

"I didn't know him, Mr. Browning," she remarked, looking to her side. 

"I can tell that. He never mentioned about you when he was alive." 

Winnifred raised her brows. Well, this characteristic certainly didn't change. Jack quickly softened, noticing her indignant glance. 

"I'm sorry, miss," he corrected himself. "I shouldn't have...." 

"Acted like you would usually act with me?" Winnifred finished for him, lifting her brows in sarcasm.

"It's alright, Mr. Browning, I understand." 

J ack fell silent. Winnifred also didn't speak, thinking if bluntness was the right move here. She uncertainly cracked her pinkie. 

"Mr. Browning, I am here about my uncle's will...." she quickly said, slightly leaning forward. Jack wrinkled his forehead from displeasure, holding up his hand. 

"I know, Miss Lewly, I know." 

Winnifred reclined back, fiddling with her fingers more than before. Jack took a pen from the pen holder and began rotating it in his fingers. Suddenly, he abruptly threw it down on the table, making Winnifred jerk.

"Don't you find this ridiculous, Miss Lewly?" He slashed, angrily staring at her and standing up. He made an emphasis on Miss Lewly. Winnifred pressed her lips together, looking at him from the bottom up. 

"I do," she carefully answered. "But you were never a patient person, Mr. Browning, so your.....detonation, if you will, is of no surprise." God, she spends too much time with Johnathan. Jack seemed to think the same as he now stared at her in disbelief. 

"You are Winnifred Lewly, right?" He suspiciously asked, eyeing her from the top. Winnifred pressed her lips in irritation. 

"Yes, this is Winnifred Lewly who tripped and sent you flying down the steps in a local high school," she looked at him in annoyance. 

"And I would be extremely glad if you speed up your banking formalities and get me out of here." 

The confusion of Jack's face slowly melted to recognition as his lips slowly stretched into a smile. Then he smirked. 

"So it is you," he said, sitting back down and examining her in interest.

"You know, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you at the cemetery." 

Winnifred didn't like the sneer on his face. In fact, she wanted more than ever to get out of this cabinet. 

"Do not get too familiar, Jack, the fact that you had a break for five years doesn't mean that you get to be nice over the top or pretend like you had a memory blackout....." 

All this time, Jack was smiling. However, when she got to the end of her sentence, his smile melted into something distasteful and bitter. Winnifred touched the sensitive string for all of them. 

"....and I came here only because I needed to, otherwise I wouldn't even think of marching here and having this horrible rendezvous." Winnifred triumphantly finished, clutching her hands on her lap to the point of pain. Jack thoughtfully twirled the pen in his hands, occasionally glancing up at her. 

"Do you have an account?" He finally asked. 

"No," Winnifred crossly retorted. "And I don't want one. I'm not staying here." 

"Then I assume you want an access to Horner's account?" 

"Yes." 

Jack sighed and dropped the pen back in the holder. 

"Very well. I will take care of the formalities and send them to your lawyer." 

Winnifred nodded, the proper "thank you" not going out of her throat. Jack waited for a moment, but when he understood that he won't get it, smirked and stood up. Winnifred stood up as well. 

"Well, Miss Lewly, I hope I have been somewhat useful." Winnifred kept quiet. Jack sighed. 

"And before you go, would you do me a favor of meeting me tomorrow at the city square?" 

"What for?" Winnifred frowned. Jack's eyes bore into her. 

"Don't forget that I have been gone for five years. You don't suppose that I don't want to know what has happened with my home city?" Winnifred carefully looked at him, silently weighting something in her mind. 

"At what time?" She finally asked. 

"At two," Jack eagerly answered her, visibly livening. "Near the fountains." 

"Alright. I'll be there," Winnifred sighed, walking out through the door, held by Jack. 

"Mr. Baer," Jack meanwhile called. "If you may, please?" 

Before going in, Baer stopped near Winnifred. 

"Is everything settled, Miss Lewly?" 

"Yes, sir." Winnifred tiredly answered and walked down the corridor. Mickie followed her with a curious gaze. 

***

Winnifred thoughtfully kicked the pebble from her way and, with a sigh, raised her head up. The sky cleared up, making her walk home pleasurable. Too bad her thoughts weren't as sunny. 

She knew Jack Browning from first grade. He was the son of a very rich family, a white crow among the rest of the villagers. When he came to their school, he immediately gained followers who would do anything to him. Like Mickie, only much less sophisticated and intimidating. Most of her classmates feared him and his influence. Except one, of course. Heath just had to make life harder for himself. He would constantly stand up to Jack, irritated by his wealth, pompous behavior, and cowardice. In return, Browning and his minions would literally persecute him. In tenth grade, one of Browning's bulky followers pushed Heath under a car. Right after he got out of the hospital, Heath set Browning house on fire. Heath got into a juvenile. Jack didn't. Then, in twelfth grade, Jack left to some unknown, well, now known, place for higher education and unwillingly turned hell into heaven. Not that Winnifred was ever directly affected by Jack's witch hunts. But she was there, with Heath. And despite his attempts to keep her out of this, she would always be there. And that would regularly result in her persecution as well. 

Winnifred climbed the bus along with the passengers. There was a free seat near the window, and Winnifred quickly took it. She had a long ride so she might as well rest. 

But five years passed. Could Jack've potentially changed, without his hatred to Heath present? Winnifred did not know if she herself changed or not, but she was certainly just as interested to talk with Jack as he was with her. Winnifred closed her eyes and leaned against the cold window pane. Guilt slowly hesitated at her mind's door, then quietly, but getting louder each time, started knocking. 

***

First came sense. The strange coldness against the cheek. The splitting pain in the back of the head. Then came vision. The blurred, gradually focusing, image of the leg of the cupboard unusually on its side. Memory came last. 

Johnathan blinked, slightly wrinkling his forehead. Slowly understanding where he was, Johnathan carefully tensed his arm muscles and raised up to a sit. Resting his hands on his knees, he blankly stared into the space before him, waiting while his thoughts clear up. His throat was extremely dry, not to mention the immense desire to sleep. All were adverse effects of taking fentanyl. Not that it helped anyway. Sighing, Johnathan grabbed the edge of the table and slowly stood up. The world went swimming again before his eyes, and he grasped the edge to keep himself from falling. The simple walk to the door took a good fifteen minutes. Hesitating next to it, Johnathan leaned his head on the cold metal, deeply breathing and vainly trying to regain his composure. His mind seemed to have lost all control of his muscles, not trembling like tight strings. Johnathan gripped his teeth together and walked out. He was lucky; the corridor was mostly empty due to the prevalence of psychological wards. Johnathan was constantly telling himself to focus, but his confusion kept on slowly chipping away on his consciousness, especially noticeable when he was signing himself out on the reception desk. 

"Mr. Crane?" 

Johnathan jerked, pen twitching in his hand and questioningly looked at Clarke. She answered with the same interrogating look. Damn. It seemed she said something that he didn't hear. 

"Did you say something, Evangeline?" Johnathan tiredly rubbed his face with his hand, before looking at her again. 

"Yes, sir....I was asking if you were feeling alright," Clarke quietly repeated. 

"Yes, yes I'm well," Johnathan wearily answered, writing the time of his departure and placing the pen down. 

"Good night, Miss Clarke." 

"Good night, Mr. Crane." 

He didn't remember his walk home very well. All he could tell were the dark haze of the dark trees around him, then the tiresome walk upstairs, and the irritating fumbling with the keys, who didn't get into the keyhole from the first time. When Johnathan stepped inside his apartment, he tumbled into the first armchair in his reach and collapsed into a restless dream. 

***

_ Our lovely Freddie,  _

_ Don't judge. In some aspect, I did lose the bet. It's horrible without you here. I went to the lectures yesterday.  _

_ I ran away right after.  _

_ We've been playing nonstop for the past two days. I won again. Wasn't bluffing this time. Actually. I also found myself a job. You won't like it.  _

_ I'm sure Johnathan sends his regards inside himself. Somewhere deep. Somewhere very very deep. You know, he has a scientific approach to everything, even to our friendship, assuming that it's a friendship and not a fucking knows what. As for me, you know, I'm an open book. I always want my Freddie back.  _

_ Your disobedient friend,  _

_ Heath _

Heath critically looked at his work, judging if it was nonsense or not. It seemed alright. And yet he was dissatisfied because he couldn't express this suicidal boredom that was eating him day and night, this apathy before the storm which would break out if Freddie wouldn't be here, right this moment. Sighing, Heath lightly blew on the letter, drying away the ink, and, rereading it as he went, placed it on a special shelf he made on the mill's wall. It will have its debut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, folks, this is fanfiction. Stuff can be unrealistic here. That being said, chugging fentanyl to avoid an uncomfortable conversation/a day at school, work, whatever/ an unnecessary but nerve-racking presentation or to simply relax won't cause you to lose conspicuousness temporarily (like with Johnathan). The results are fatal. So, don't take the stuff that happens in this fanfic for real and DON'T TAKE FENTANYL! 
> 
> On a happier note, as always, thank you to everyone who is reading this fanfiction! Don't forget to leave kudos and comments! My one reviewer so far: you're amazing.


	5. Part 1: Gotham Outskirts - Chapter 5

Winnifred critically looked around, lips tightly pressed together. The square was a bonny little place, large fountains plopped in the center. Small boutiques and cafes embroidered it on the edge. Winnifred sighed and, quickly glancing around, dragged over two chairs from the closest cafe and positioned them across each other next to the fountain. Sitting on one of them, stretching the legs on the other, Winnifred, looking around for the final time, sighed and opened her book she took just in case. The light water drops from the fountain strays frosted her back, blown by the small breeze. Her pages ruffled from underneath her fingers. Winnifred uncomfortably shifted in her seat. She couldn't focus.

"Miss Lewly?"

Winnifred raised her eyes from the book. Jack was standing next to her, a warm smile painted on his face. Winnifred tensely smiled and closed her book, cover uncomfortably pressing on her fingers between the pages.

"Good day, Mr. Browning," she amiably said, taking her feet off from the chair. "Take a seat."

Jack eagerly took her offer. 

"What are you reading?" He inquired, nodding towards her little volume. 

"This is..." Winnifred quickly glanced on the cover. "Shakespeare. Macbeth. Late Horner has a great library, so I'm taking the chance while I'm still here. So," she stared expectantly at Jack. "Why did you want me to come?" 

"Well," Jack leaned back on the metal chair, folding his hands before him. "I would like to know what's going on in our home town. I haven't been there for five years after all." 

Winnifred wrinkled her forehead, looking down on her book and uneasily rubbed its cover with her thumb. "Nothing much. They tried to fix the roads three years ago, but they never really finished it. Otherwise it stayed pretty much the same as it was. Next question?" 

Jack slightly chuckled at her last two words. 

"What about moving to a cafe?" He proposed, examining her with his dark eyes. "Before you get your entire back wet." 

Winnifred waved him off, scrunching her face, but anyways stood up. They went to the cafe where she rented her chairs, and, now properly sitting, still outside, at a table, resumed their conversation. 

"You finished college by now, right?" Jack confirmed, taking a sip of his lemonade. "What do you do now?"

Winnifred preferred to take a gulp of coke before answering to his question. "I have a Bachelors in accounting," she carefully said, trying to catch the smug, knowing grin on Jack's face. It didn't appear.

"Charlotte's becoming an accountant as well. Billy and Sammy will probably go to the black market." Jack's brows slightly rose up. Winnifred hid the smile by taking another sip of her coke. Well that came as a surprise. 

"Jacob is going to the editorial office. Mark and Riley'll go working at a local bank, even though I have never met such lazy bankers. And Johnathan is, obviously, a medic." 

"Johnathan?" Jack repeated, frowning in confusion. 

"You don't remember Johnathan?" Winnifred asked in amusement, stopping making circles with her straw. 

"No, I remember everyone else," he hastened to clarify, taking a quick sip of his lemonade. "But I don't remember....what's his name? Johnathan? Did he come after I left?" 

"Never mind," Winnifred looked away. Of course he wouldn't remember Johnathan. They hardly interacted even when he was there. Only by slight encounters in the hospital, not that Browning even had lunatics in his family. Jack carefully studied her face as she slowly lowered into thought. 

"And what about Heath?" He cautiously asked, trying to sound indifferent. "I believe you still interact with him, right?" 

Winnifred smirked, leaning back on her chair. The breeze swatted the hair into her face, and she made no attempt to fix it. 

"I....I don't know," she carefully said, looking at the straw in her fingers. "He hasn't told me yet."

Jack's lips slightly twitched. Winnifred quickly glanced up at him, but he already leaned back, calm expression taking over his features. Winnifred felt a foreboding pulse in her thumb.

"And how is he?" Jack finally asked. His voice was slightly strained, but otherwise friendly. Winnifred shrugged.

"Well." 

They sat for a while in silence. 

"What about you, Jack?" Winnifred finally brushed her hair from her eyes and sighed with a smile. Jack's face scrunched in unconcern, waving her question off with his hand. 

"Nothing, really. I entered a prestigious college, and now I took over my father's company." The mention of his father made Winnifred's fingers slightly tense around her glass. Ronald Jim Browning. Jack's protector and financier. One of the reasons why he didn't get into the juvenile along with Heath.

"Is your father well?" Winnifred carefully inquired. Jack's eyes quickly scanned her over. 

"Yes, quite." The answer was curt and dry. Winnifred bit the corner of her lip and straightened up in her seat, looking down into her glass. The conversation was suddenly drained of its initial propeller-curiosity-leaving an awkward void. Winnifred sighed, looking to her sides, then abruptly stood up. 

"It was a pleasure to see you, Jack," she politely nodded to him. He hastily stood up as well. 

"You're leaving?" 

Winnifred gave a small smile and shrugged at friendly loss.

"But there's nothing more talk about," she amiably noticed. "I told you everything that interested you, and now we part as people who had their quarrels with each other, made amends, and now walk away with a satisfied conscience." 

This wasn't the exact phrase she had thought up last night while preparing herself for this conversation, but it works as well. But oh, how Jack looks at loss! 

"But...can I at least accompany you home?" He offered, a little awkwardly, trying to hide his confusion. Winnifred shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but..." The words halted in her throat. Damn it. Damn it all. Winnifred quickly sat back down in her chair, ignoring Jack's confused stare. Her features froze as she gripped the chair's handle. The bubble of darkness and pain burst inside her mind, blackening her out of consciousness for a moment, but she jerked the second after. Shaking her head from the abyss, Winnifred raised her gaze back at Browning. He looked pale and his mouth was somewhat parted, as if in an attempt to call someone. He slowly closed it. 

"They still continue?" He softly asked. 

Winnifred sniffed, smelling the blood. "It's alright actually." 

She stood up again, gripping her Shakespeare at her side. "Good day, then, Jack." 

Jack nodded, following her with his eyes as she left. The expression on his face was something mixed with amusement, trouble, and confusion. 

*** 

Margaret was sitting on the bed and writing in her diary when Winnifred entered their room. 

"How did it go?" She curiously asked, watching how her cousin throws her sneakers across the room, as well as the jacket and book. Winnifred then fell face first next to Margaret. Chuckling, the latter passed her fingers through her cousin's locks. 

"Well?" She repeated. There was a muffled sigh, and Winnifred rolled over on her back, almost crushing Margaret's fingers in the process.

"Well, I was very polite and careful in what I was saying," Winnifred slightly tilted her head back to see Margaret's face. "Just like you told me to." 

"And he?" Margaret pressed on. Winnifred shrugged. 

"And he was polite and careful too. When I mentioned Heath, he got a little tense, but otherwise his composure was even better than mine." 

Margaret sighed and continued to stroke her hair. Winnifred squeezed her eyes, tired and confused. 

"Tell me," she said, without opening her eyes,"Can he really be so...." she stopped, trying to find the right word. "

Nice given your shared history?" Margaret finished with a sigh. Her fingers got caught in one of the hair clumps, and she roughly tore it. Ignoring Winnifred's small cry of pain, she dropped her notebook and pen on the floor, thoughtfully crossing her arms on her chest. 

"Maybe?" Margaret finally said, tilting her head to the side in thought. "But considering his character when you were kids...." 

"You knew his character?" Winnifred interrupted in amusement. "How come? You were a year older than us!" 

Margaret smiled. "That didn't stop me from being up to date with your daily concerns. Given that you always complained about them." 

Winnifred lowered back down. "Oh." 

"As I was saying," Margaret continued,"A person can't change so much, at least I don't think so. After all, nothing significant happened in his life to completely upturn his personality. I mean, none of his close relatives died, he finished a prestige college, owns a very profitable company, I would even say that he could even be more pompous than before. He's just not showing it." 

"Why not?" Winnifred frowned, crossing her arms on her chest as well. The rain lightly pattered on the window pane. 

"He's careful," Margaret shrugged, eyeing the starting rain. "Not sure how to act around you I guess. C'mon, look at yourself, you didn't even show half of your dumbness around him." 

"Margie!" Winnifred jokingly punched her into the arm, raising her offended eyes. Margaret broadly grinned and, grabbing the pillow from under Winnifred's head, smashed it right onto her cousin's face. Laughing, Winnifred threw the pillow into the air from her face. It landed onto her stomach, and she crunched it in her grasp.

"So what should I do?" She asked, calming down. Margaret sighed, straightening her legs.

"I don't know," she confessed. "You don't have to do anything. On the other hand, you can spend more time in his company. Maybe his traits will show up." 

"Spend time in Jack's company?" Winnifred grimaced at the idea. "But it's so boring! I never noticed this because we were too busy thinking up death traps for each other, but if you take him just as a person, he's bloody dull!" 

Margaret knowingly patted her hand. "You don't have to spend a lot of time. Maybe he'll reveal himself quicker than we think." 

"And should I?" 

Margaret sighed, staring into space. The sound of the clock ticking filled the room. 

"No. No, you shouldn't." 

*** 

The narrow streak of light sickly flickered, then widened. Johnathan blinked and opened his eyes. Slowly turning his head, ignoring the immediate pain that followed, he looked at the clock. Five. He slept almost twenty four hours straight. 

Wearily rubbing his hand across his face, Johnathan deeply inhaled. It still seemed that he didn't have enough air, but the effect was slowly wearing away. Carefully standing up, he slowly walked over to the kitchen. Almost jerking the handle off, Johnathan filled his cupped hands with water and abruptly splashed into his face. The cold water completely obliterated what was left of somnolence. Johnathan shook his head, trying to fix his thoughts. Pressing his hands into the counter, water dripping from his wet hair, Johnathan stared into the grey sink. Something was nagging him. Something very important, something he had to remember. And then it hit him. Johnathan abruptly straightened out and quickly walked into his cabinet. Feverishly flipping through the different sketches and formulas, Johnathan took out the one with the recent work and stared at it. This variation was the one. His hand aimlessly raised up to his head and dropped again. He did it. An effective chemical that would suck the fear out of its victim's mind, transforming it into a virtual reality. Driven by impulse, Johnathan victoriously slammed the table with his hand, setting a few of his pages flying on the floor. Johnathan straightened out, feeling an extreme elevation. Still a little hazy from the drug, he walked back to the kitchen and poured himself what was left of the whiskey. Damn that it doesn't mix with fentanyl.... Johnathan threw the empty bottle into the trash and glanced into the refrigerator. Not much. Not enough for dinner even. Sighing, Johnathan closed the door and grabbed his keys and jacket. 

The walk to the local store was refreshing. Johnathan didn't take much, just a few eggs for an omelette, milk, a bottle of vodka, canned tuna fish, and black bread. Only one line was open and of course, the line took up half the store. Impatiently standing after a small brunette in a pink sports bra, Johnathan looked at the newspaper stands to kill time. The magazines were as usual all about, perhaps, year-old gossip. The line slightly moved forward, and Johnathan kicked his basket forward.

"Crane?" 

Johnathan turned around in surprise. Dr. Collins was standing behind him, studying him in interest. Johnathan had to give it to him; he never wore a shaggy jacket over a sweater. But it's also quite something to see your superior in jeans, homemade vest, and sandals. 

"Good afternoon, Dr. Collins," Johnathan politely greeted him, on the way shoving the basket to the right. 

"Afternoon, Johnathan. Daily chores I see?" 

Johnathan shortly smiled, not answering the question. His eyes fell on Collins's basket, filled up to the edges. 

"One of the disadvantages of being married," the doctor chuckled, following the intern's gaze. Johnathan's eyes flickered back on the doctor.

"So," Collins's eyes slightly narrowed. "Where have you been yesterday? You missed an important surgery on the spinal cord." 

"I'm sorry, I wasn't feeling up to it," Johnathan hastily lowered his eyes. He forgot completely. 

"Yes, Evangeline told me," Collins thoughtfully studied Johnathan's face for any emotion. Johnathan answered with a composed, indifferent expression. The doctor sighed. 

"What about your dissertation? Thinking about it these days?" He changed the topic. That was fortunate. Johnathan picked his basket up and placed it one the counter in front of the clerk. 

"Yes, sir. Fear and its effects on the mind. It's more interesting to perform on humans, but for now I'll test animals." 

"And how are you going to study that?" Collins skeptically raised a brow. "Jump out from the bushes and shout _boo_ to the squirrel?" 

Johnathan's lips twitched in a smile as he handed the clerk cash. Even though his superior's humor usually irritated him, today it was quite fitting. 

"No, but I have my methods. No receipt please, thank you." 

"Well then," Collins shrugged and heaved his heavy basket on the counter. "Good luck. I expect you to be at the hospital for the morning shift." 

"Yes sir. Till then, sir."

***

_My dear Freddie, You won't at all like my job. It is, you can say, completely out of your taste. But it's okay. Nothing changed here. Same old trees. Not really, actually; Gorgeous green leaves adorn them now. Alright, so nothing changed here except the trees._ Someone knocked into the door, and Heath warningly held up his hand. _You can't believe it, but Johnathan almost went nuts on his chemical. While testing it. So as you can see, I literally have no one to talk to. Do come from Maine. Please. Your poor disobedient friend, Heath_ Heath finished his last stroke and turned around in his chair. 

"Come in," he politely invited the visitors. 

Halifax tumbled in, drenched from head to foot. He stumbled over a stool, grabbed a beam next to him, but the latter, proving to be too shaggy for support, crashed under him. Heath, glancing at the cursing man from the corner of his eye, calmly carried the letter to its shelf and placed it on top of the first one. Then, he turned around. 

"Good night, Mr. Halifax. What brings you here?" 

The bloodshot eyes rose up from their dark rims and bushy eyebrows. He slowly stood up and made a few steps forward. 

"I've heard you have fentanyl," Halifax rasped, fingers spasmodically clenching in abrupt movements. Heath slightly raised his eyebrows and kicked a stool towards him. 

"Sit down, Mr. Halifax."

The man staggered towards the stool and collapsed down onto it. Heath meanwhile lit a cigarette and inhaled in the smoke. 

"So..." He dragged over another stool towards Halifax and sat down across him, folding his hands in front. Halifax's eyes stopped at the cigarette, positioned between the middle and ring fingers. 

"I don't have fentanyl," Heath pointedly said, smoke rolling off his lips, and watching Halifax's wild eyes. They flickered back on his face. Then, he abruptly stood up and staggered to the door. 

"But it depends on the price of course."

Heath's quiet voice made Halifax freeze in the doorway. He slowly turned around. 

"Price?" Halifax repeated in a coarse voice. He was quiet for a moment, studying the young man, then walked up and sat back down again. Heath took in another inhale and held the smoke in his mouth, feeling it cool down inside. 

"Hundred," Halifax proposed. Heath reclined back, passing his hand over the air in refusal. 

"Out of the question," he lowered the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling out smoke. Halifax grimaced and fell silent, suspiciously looking at the young man.

"How much?" He finally inquired. Heath indifferently shrugged, gesturing with his hand, as if indicating the obvious. 

"One fifty." 

"One fifty?!" The stool crashed across the room when Halifax sprang up on his feet. Amusement and hatred distorted his already wry face. 

"This is highway robbery!" 

"Double crossing, aren't you, Mr. Halifax," Heath pointed the cigarette at him. Halifax slightly twitched. 

"Richie doesn't know that you're buying fentanyl not from the gang. Which costs two hundred. Or were you so kind to inform him?" 

Halifax spat down on the floor and fell back onto the stool. His face occasionally jerked, teeth gritting more often than ever. Heath didn't hurry him; standing up, he walked over and leaned on the doorway, looking at the pattering rain. It mercilessly pounded on the pines, breaking their twigs under its pressure. Heath heard the old boards creak as Halifax stood up and walked over to him. Heath slightly tilted his head to the side. 

"You want something?" 

"Fine," Halifax growled, teeth unpleasantly skidding over each other. "But I'll have to get the money first." 

Heath slightly twitched his lips, unconcerned. 

"How long?" 

"Hour and half max. My car isn't very far from here."

"Come back once you get it. I want this to be done today." 

Halifax was about to go, when Heath stopped him with an outstretched arm. "Fifty dollars, please. I assume you have fifty dollars on you?" 

Halifax's hand unconsciously jerked to the pocket with his wallet. "What for?" 

Heath crookedly smiled. "As interest. And for your silence and cooperation." 

"Fuck you," Halifax breathed out, smashing the bill into Heath's open hand. The young man easily tucked it inside his pocket. Halifax pushed by, painfully hitting him on the shoulder. Heath waited he was out of earshot, then let his long-held laughter roll out. Still chuckling, he walked back inside, tossing the paper bill into his partly demolished piggy bank. These addicts, so easy to be manipulated with. Now, he has two weeks of groceries covered. Heath sat down on the floor with a satisfied sigh and leaned against one of the beams. Looking to his side, he dragged over a small piece of wood, and, taking out his pocketknife, began carving on it. He had thousands of these small carvings, mostly of animals and plants. He couldn't carve out humans. Just couldn't get the proportions. 

The hour and a half passed by very quickly. Heath was almost finished with his squirrel when Halifax's shadow stretched across the floor. 

"Here," he scraped, thrusting a wad of money at Heath. "Choke yourself." 

Heath calmly picked up the wad which plopped right next to him and quickly counted the bills. 

"You're a man of your word, Mr. Halifax," he noticed, standing up and unnoticeably placing it into his broken piggy bank. Halifax didn't answer. Heath walked past him, putting his long coat on the way and gesturing to the man to follow him. 

The rain angrily greeted him; he immediately got soaked from the first step. Ignoring its harsh pounding, Heath quickly led Halifax into the forest, taking devious and roundabout paths. They stopped at a lonely building. Halifax nervously looked around. The hospital's glum features shimmered somewhere beyond the trees. 

"Where did you bring me?" Halifax suspiciously asked, taking a step towards Heath. The latter ignored his question, kneeling down to a small, crooked voice box banged to the building's wall. His finger automatically pressed the buttons 521. The dial tone was barely heard in the shattering rain, but then Johnathan's voice finally broke it. 

"Yes?" 

Heath eagerly jerked towards the box, shouting over the shower. "Johnny! It's Heath! Open up!" 

The high pitched beeping was the answer. Heath hastily grabbed the door's handle and jerked it open, holding it out for Halifax. It was dim inside, the only light bulb sickly flickering. An old, narrow staircase stretched upwards before them. Heath immediately started up the stairs. By the fifth floor, Halifax was completely worn out. Heath, used to the climb, spitefully chuckled to himself at the exhausted man on the staircase and looked around the narrow flight. There were three doors. The farthermost right was already open, waiting for him. Heath broadly grinned. The moment when Johnathan pretends that he doesn't care a damn for them and utterly fails. 

"Wait here," he ordered Halifax. That one didn't answer. Not really caring for him, Heath ran into the small apartment, heading straight for the living room, which, honestly, looked like a cabinet. 

"Johnathan!" He happily called, looking in. Strange, but he wasn't in the room.

"What do you want?" Johnathan calmly asked, appearing behind his back. Heath turned around, a wide smile painted on his face. The intern was rubbing a small cup with a towel, hands wet from water. Heath grinned. 

"You medics use fentanyl for quick....uh, knockouts?" 

"It's called anesthesia," Johnathan corrected him. "But yes. Why?" 

"I have a client," Heath lowered his voice, nodding somewhere behind Johnathan's back. "He's waiting outside."

Johnathan quickly glanced around, then handed the cup and towel to Heath. 

"Here." Heath unwittingly began wiping it. Johnathan opened the cupboard and began searching through the numerous bottles and bags. 

"There's a chair behind you, can you drag it over?" He ordered, not turning to look at Heath. That one shrugged and pulled over the chair's, indeed behind him, leg with his foot. Johnathan settled the chair next to him and stepped up on it, opening the upper doors. 

"You keep your drugs that far?" Heath inquired, arching his head back. 

"How much?" Johnathan asked, ignoring the question. 

Heath shrugged. "Not much. Just enough to make him come back."

Johnathan smirked and took out a bottle. He lifted his glasses to read the label on it. "Fentanyl, you say?"

"Yup." 

Crane stepped down off the chair and exchanged the cup, on the verge of being drilled through by Heath's intent rubbing, for the bottle. 

"Here. You can take all of it, there's only like a third left. I have more in the hospital." Heath checked the label just in case: FENTANYL. Great. 

"Mr. Halifax," he called, racing back out on the flight. Halifax already recovered, leaning on the rails and, like always, gritting his teeth. At the sight of Heath and the drug, his eyes shimmered in an unhealthy glimmer. 

"Your fentanyl, sir," Heath handed the bottle to Halifax. "Keep it clear from Richie's notice. Good night." Not waiting for Halifax's response, Heath turned around and closed the door behind him. 

Originally, the apartment was for two people studying in the med school. But after Johnathan conducted a few experiments, the other roommate willingly moved out. Johnathan used this to his advantage, transforming the apartment under his standards, piling it with his books, lab equipment, chemicals, and his unique taste. Despite its peculiarity, Heath and Winnifred loved it. It was their second hang-around place, like the mill. Except it was better because there was a fridge.

When Heath closed the door behind him, Johnathan was already in the kitchen. He was washing dishes, glasses hanging on his T-shirt's collar and a Lucky Strike clutched between his teeth. Heath, quietly humming under his breath, lit a cigarette for himself as well and opened the refrigerator. "

Twinkle twinkle little star...." he softly sang to himself. His eyes took in the mostly empty shelves. "And there's not a damn in bloody Scarecrow's bar," he finished in frustration, slamming the fridge shut. A lonely can of tuna fish and a bottle of year old vodka were in his hands. 

Heath sat down on the small, round table, placing the vodka and the can down. Johnathan, glanced at his friend's humble feast. Smirking, he tossed Heath a loaf of black bread. Heath thanked him with a nod and cut himself a slice. Plopping a piece of tuna on his bread, he took a large gulp of vodka, lowering the cigarette down in preparation. He immediately grimaced, almost dropping his Lucky Strike, and squinted his eyes from bitterness. Not opening his eyes, he sent in his tuna bread into his mouth. Five second passed in him hastily chewing his bread and fish. Then, he swallowed it and finally opened his eyes. 

"Great," he breathed out and cut himself another slice. Johnathan turned off the faucet and, wiping his wet hands with the towel, sat down at the table. Heath handed him over the self-patched sandwich and the bottle. Johnathan, thanking him with a nod, took a gulp of vodka, immediately eating the sandwich inhaling the smoke. While he was recovering, Heath disappeared in the adjacent room. A few moments later, he appeared again with a small chess board and a grey sack. 

"Chess?" He asked, broadly grinning as Johnathan blinked a few times to get rid of the bitterness. 

"Why not?" Johnathan sighed, putting on his glasses. Heath sat down, moving the bread, can, and bottle to the side, and began placing the figurines from the sack on their squares. Johnathan, inhaling another dose of smoke, helped him, placing two black pawns onto his side. 

"Drug business I see?" He noticed, exhaling out, and positioning his rook on the farthest corner. 

"I don't like it." Heath thoughtfully looked at his king and rook, then switched them. Johnathan smirked, raising his eyebrows, but didn't say anything. He placed the final pawn on its square and leaned back, gesturing with his hand. 

"Whites first."

"I know," Heath thoughtfully rubbed his chin with the side of his index finger, smoke puffing off the cigarette's tip. Then, he moved his knight to f3. 

"You're next." 

Johnathan quickly glanced over the board before making his move. For a while, they played in silence. 

"Do you think about Freddie?" Heath asked, queen thoughtfully bobbling in between his fingers before using it to knock over the black bishop. 

"Of course," Johnathan frowned, in return exchanging Heath's queen for his knight. "What sort of question is that?" 

"Well," Heath licked his lips, glumly observing his situation. His fingers unwittingly played with the exchanged black figures on the side. "I mean, you usually talk about people as if they're empty space." 

"Most of them are," Johnathan agreed, easily going out of Heath's check. "The more you learn psychology, the more you understand this. But you guys aren't empty space. Even though I would've liked you to be." 

"How come?" Heath asked, thoughtfully rubbing the top of his pawn over his lip, before placing it down on the next square. Johnathan shrugged. 

"Don't take it too close to heart. It's just better for a scientist if he's alone. Less distractions." 

"You have a point," Heath agreed, pointing at Johnathan with his black bishop. He sent another sandwich into his mouth. "Instead of playing chess with me, you could've been discovering a new loophole in your chemical. But it's too late for you, man. We're not letting you off the hook." 

"I don't really want to. Anyway, you guys are far from empty space, so it's not like my time is completely wasted." 

"For example? Freddie, I mean," Heath quickly asked, glancing upwards at the intern. Johnathan frowned and leaned back, scenarios of the possible combinations of moves passing before his eyes. 

"Well," he slowly said, cigarette moving up and down in his fingers. "I can relax in her presence. Even though I generally don't like when there are people when I'm working." Heath quietly smirked under his breath, hiding his eyes. He noticed how Johnathan's features softened when he started speaking about her. Oh Winnie. Only you can bring back our mad scientist back to planet Earth. 

"Do you think about Freddie?" Johnathan asked out of an interest, making a fork to Heath. Heath quietly swore under his breath and moved his rook to the left.

"Every day." 

Johnathan absentmindedly nodded, thinking about something of his own. They sat until two in the morning. Their first game was a stalemate, the next two were wins, for Heath and Johnathan subsequently. The rain ended by that time, allowing Johnathan to comfortably walk to the hospital and Heath to run back to the mill. There, he feverishly carved out little squirrels, crocodiles, and armadillos, until he willingly fell asleep at five o'clock.


	6. Part 1: Gotham Outskirts - Chapter 6

_“Heath! Heath! Come back!”_

_Winnifred skidded around the corner and banged her back against the wall. Heath, leaning against it and shuffling his cards, glanced at her. His eyes twinkled with merriment. Winnifred angrily slashed her hair behind her shoulder._

_“Are you an idiot? Are you purposely trying to get expelled?”_

_“Course not,” Heath quickly smiled and, looking over her shoulder, tossed the cigarette on the floor, pressed it with his foot._

_“Do you think Mrs. Edwards saw?”_

_“Along with your entire classroom?” Winnifred specified, raising her eyebrows._

_“Oh come on,” Heath swatted her away, leaning on the wall and relaxing his shoulders._

_“I just wanted to have a little fun—”_

_“A little fun?! By hanging a rat on the lamp over her head?!”_

_“Damn it, Freddie, who told you this?” Heath frowned. “Billy? Riley? Because first of all, it was a chinchilla, second of all, it was dead, and third, someone has to make fun of Ms. Edwards!”_

_“It was Mark,” Winnifred grumbled. Heath snorted. The bell rang, signifying the end of fourth period. Heath chuckled, shaking his head, and walked out of the corner. Winnifred, still slightly fuming, followed him. Students pushed beside them, hurrying to their classes. Heath stopped next to his unlocked locker, swiftly pushing up the metal hanger, and swinging the door open. Winnifred softly leaned next to his door, indifferently observing him. Heath, quietly humming, took out a couple of notebooks, before frowning, and replacing the red one with a green one._

_“Quite a chaos you caused during math, eh Heath?”_

_Heath, lifting his eyebrows, turned around. Winnifred lowered her head, hiding her displeasure and desperation. Jack was standing there, his snakish grin twisting his thin lips._

_“I think you’re a bit exaggerating” Heath corrected, looking down at his books and arranging them. He sighed and lifted his head._

_“Just a couple of exclamations, that’s all.”_

_“Well, well,” Jack smirked. “Tomorrow’s the 16th. Do you know what happens that day?”_

_“Life suddenly stops making sense?”_

_Winnifred wrinkled her forehead and looked at Heath in confusion. Life? Sense? Since when?!_

_Meanwhile, Jack triumphantly sneered. “Tomorrow’s tax collection. Father meant to remind you.”_

_Winnifred cautiously glanced at Heath. He continued smiling._

_“Well then, remind your blesséd pops that I’d be honored to show him my taxes.” His smile turned dangerous._

_“And if your dad tries to drag me to court, I’ll have him eating your shit.”_

_Jack’s smug features melted like lava into cold rock._

_“Heath,” Winnifred quietly said._

_“What, Freddie?” Heath harshly responded, not looking away from Jack. “I already pay for my bloody education, now they want to strip me off for an abandoned mill? I'm not having these fucked up rich boy tell me around.”_

_A bulky junior stepped out out of Jack’s shoulder and crashed his fist into Heath’s nose. Heath stumbled back in surprise, hitting hard into the lockers. For a split second, Winnifred covered her mouth, before lunging forward. Another muscular junior grabbed her from the behind, instantly the air out of her lungs. The sudden commotion was replaced by just as sudden silence. Heath wordlessly touched his nose with the tips of his fingers, observing the red droplets. His eyes flickered back at Jack, a few steps away from his previous position. Browning was heavily breathed, eyes feverishly ignited._

_“Let her go,” Heath quietly said, lowering his hand and taking one step towards Browning. Jack snorted, coldly observing Heath’s features._

_“Like hell I would.”_

_The junior punched Winnifred into the stomach. The girl winced. Heath wordlessly grabbed Jack by the collar and threw him against the lockers. The silence shattered. The junior let out his grasp in surprise; Winnifred used the moment to wriggle out and run over to Heath who was mercilessly punching Jack with whatever he could._

_“Heath!”_

_Heath skillfully ignored her. Another notebook landed on Jack’s face._

_“Heath, please,” Winnifred pleaded, leaning down and tugging Heath away by the shoulders._

_“Mr. Heath!”_

_The tenth grade dean, Mrs. Feingold, furiously rushed through the bystander crowd. “Excuse me, Clara, Jennifer... beg your pardon... Mr. Hardy, please turn in your cigarettes...”_

_The forty-five year old woman stopped next to Winnifred, staring at the crime scene in loss. The binder, lifted in midair, halted, and Heath looked back over his shoulder. The crowd stared back at him. Heath slowly licked his upper gum, before dropping the binder on Jack’s bloodied face and standing up, wiping his hand and glancing at the dean._

_“I’m sorry, Mrs. Feingold, I was just practicing for my physical education exam.”_

_“To my office, Heath,” Mrs. Feingold coldly ordered. She transferred her stern gaze on Winnifred._

_“And where you should be going, Miss Lewly?”_

_“I... yes, ma’am,” Winnifred pressed her lips together, and quickly pushed out of the crowd. Mrs. Feingold took one last glance at Jack, sprawled on the floor, before shifting her gaze on Billy, standing nearby and casually smoking cigarettes._

_“Mr. Hardy, help Mr. Browning to the office. And, for the final time, turn in the cigarettes.”_

***

The next day was bright. The ocean harshly stroke the eye with its azure colors, brightly gleaming in the sun. Its surface slightly vibrated in tranquil. Suddenly, the smooth ocean surface was erupted by splashes and shouts. Two young women ran through the seaside, foam kicking at their feet and waves exploding at their legs. Winnifred, choking from laughter, splashed sea water onto Margaret's dress. Her cousin didn't lag behind; an entire tsunami hit Freddie her in the face. Suffocating from indignation, laughing to the point it hurt her ribs, Winnifred clumsily stumbled over to her laughing cousin and roughly grabbed her by the arm, sending them both tumbling into water. The sea water bitterly stung them in the eyes, leaving an unpleasant taste in their mouths and throats. Scrambling out, Winnifred collapsed into the wet sand, face first. Margaret heavily breathed next to her. Winnifred, tightening her lazy muscles, abruptly rolled onto her back. The blue sky winked back at her. It has been two weeks, the beginning of third. After the first week and all of the Horner procedures, the girls took their chance to relax, wildly running around the coast line every day. After the fountain-cafe scene, Winnifred haven't really seen Browning. On their small encounters when they did meet, he was exceptionally polite and amiable. But Winnifred couldn't get rid of that suppressed premonition and guilt which followed her like a shadow. 

"What are you thinking about?" Margaret sat down next to her, looking down at her with a smile. Winnifred made a face and wiped her face from the sand. Good try, even more sand, now from the hand, stuck on her cheeks.

"I wish Heath and Johnathan would be here," she softly said. 

"They would absolutely love it." Margaret sighed and looked away. Winnifred knew she couldn't do anything about it, but still wanted to here some sort of support from her cousin. But what support could she give, really? Winnifred sighed. Margaret turned to her. 

"Why don't you write to them?" She proposed. Winnifred grimaced. She would've. If not of Heath of course. It was his idea, after all.

"I can't," she confessed. Margaret snorted. 

"Idiots," she commented,"Your fault. Suffer then." Winnifred pressed her lips together, but smiled. 

"You know, Margaret, sometimes you...." She trailed off and shook her head. Margaret grinned, then stood up. 

“Hey, Freddie, Auntie wanted you to go to the local market. Salmon, potatoes and lettuce.” 

“Oh crap,” Winnifred sighed, but stood up. Grains of sand crumbled off her calves. Her colorful, wet dress clasped around her legs, tiny rivulets streaming down from the hems. She quickly grabbed her swampy-green jacket and tossed it over her shoulder. 

“Alrighty then. Salmon, potatoes, and lettuce?” 

“That’s right, soldier,” Margaret cheerfully confirmed, walking down towards the road with her. The women stepped on the dusty road, the edges of the small rocks crumbling into their feet. Thinking to herself, Winnifred absently whistled, swinging her jacket around. 

“Why am I always the soldier? I would assume that after twenty two years I would be at least promoted to a Lieutenant.” 

“Because you don’t learn,” Margaret smirked, giving Winnifred a loaded, knowing stare. Winnifred snorted, obviously disagreeing with the verdict. The women reached the fork in the road. Margaret waved to Winnifred, before walking to the right. Winifred smiled and for a few moments, watched how her cousin diminishes from a figure to a small dot in the distance. Then, she abruptly turned around and started on the left side of the road. The wind flapped her wet, clingy dress against her legs. 

The market was relatively abandoned, a couple of stalls open and somewhat filled with food. Winnifred examined the fish, wondering how truthful the saleswoman was when she said that the fish was this morning’s. To be honest, if Winnifred worked as a vendor, she would probably also say that the four-day fish was freshly caught. 

“Winnifred!” 

Winnifred spun around and quickly faked a smile. 

“Jack,” she politely greeted him. With a smile and hands in his coat pockets, Jack walked up to her and nodded towards the fish. 

“Prepping for dinner?” 

“Yes, my aunt sent me,” Winnifred amiably replied, fingers trifling with the plastic bag in her hands. 

“Your aunt,” Jack softly smirked. “Every action you do seem to have one patron — you aunt.” 

Winnifred pressed her lips together, facing back over to the fish, not sure what to say. Any uncomfortable, scratching feeling nagged in her throat. The saleswoman, clearly disinterested, lifted her heavy eyelids on Winnifred. 

“Decided, miss?” 

“Yes. The one in the uppermost right corner, please.” 

The saleswoman indifferently plopped the piece of fish on the weights, before slowly wrapping it into some paper. 

“Sixteen ninety nine.” 

“Twenty. No change.” Winnifred tiredly handed over the dollar bill and, placing her fish into the plastic bag, started walking back towards the road. Jack hurriedly followed her, gently touching her by the arm. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he quickly said. Winnifred shot a sarcastic look at him, before lowering her gaze back to the ground. 

“Oh, it’s okay. You also have a pretty stable patron.” 

“You think so?” Jack’s lips stretched into a broad grin. Winnifred nodded, face absolutely serious.

“Of course. Two, actually. Arrogance and insolence. Never fail to sponsor you.” 

Jack laughed, shaking his head; he didn’t notice Winifred's eyes dash at him, frowning in displeasure. 

“Oh, you’re a funny individual,” Jack finally said, wiping the corners of his eyes. 

Winnifred silently raised her eyebrows, deciding not to mention that she was always that way. She felt uncomfortable; high school memories, like on a tape recorder, flipped in front of her vision, pouring caution and uneasiness into her muscles, painfully flexing once Jack stepped too close. They stepped down the rocks to the beach, the damp, dark sand immediately engulfing Winnifred’s toes. Grim, Winnifred strolled down the shoreline, hands, along with the bag of fish, tucked into her swampy-green jacket pockets Jack walked next to her, occasionally glancing in her direction. 

“You do not want to speak with me?” He quietly asked. Winnifred lowered her eyes on the sand, before looking back up again. 

“It was unnecessary to follow me back home. I could’ve walked down myself.” 

“I would not have if I didn’t have a reason to.” 

“Well? What is it?” Winnifred coldly replied, eyes wandering around the cliffs. Jack faintly smirked.

“Do you still hate me?” 

They walked up to a fence. Winnifred stopped and turned around. A sly smile crept over her face, her eyes sharp as pins. 

“What if I say yes?” She grinned, the wind breezing her hair over her face. Jack softly chuckled, resting his elbows on the fence and gazing into the raging, steel ocean. 

“I doubt you will. That would be quite foolish of you.” 

“You’re right,” Winnifred said after a moment of silence. “That would be foolish. But sometimes you have to play the role of a fool to fool the fool who thinks he’s fooling you.” 

“What?” Jack frowned, a shadow like a bird hovering over his face. 

“I’m a fool, and I say yes,” Winnifred enunciated, slowly turning her face towards Jack. It was darkly grinning. Jack smirked, tilting his head. 

“How brave and stupid,” he quietly remarked. “No matter Heath’s so into you. You guys are perfect for each other.” 

“So are you,” Winnifred angrily snapped back. “Except if we’re stupid and brave, you’re just stupid. You were always a coward, and time didn’t seem to beat that shit out of you.” 

“Really?” Jack dangerously asked, but Winnifred didn’t care to notice. 

“Actually yes,” she snorted. “I’m brave because I at least say that I hate you. You don’t even say that, instead trying to fake it under some misplaced decency!” 

“So you call saying foolish things bravery?” Jack raised his eyebrows. 

“I’m just referencing you, Jack. Brave and stupid, remember?” 

Winnifred started walking again, hoping Jack wouldn’t follow her again. He didn’t. 

***

_Dear Freddie,_

_I have a feeling that something is wrong in Maine. You know, just a feeling that hit me in the head like a brick. Now I'm walking with this dent in my brain until you come back and say that everything's fine._

_Do you like it there? More than here?_

_I'm carving little creatures out. By the time you'll come back there'll be twenty more. I know you like them._

_The exams start tomorrow. Should I go or should I stay? I let you choose._

_My regards to your cousin and aunt._

_Johnathan has no sense of friendship._

_Your lost friend,_

_Heath_

***

He knew he couldn't rely on the hospital. The mice they gave him were part dead, too frightened in the first place, and extremely voracious. Johnathan sighed, watching as the white mouse's red eyes widen, the black pupil covering the entire iris. The animal dashed into the corner from an invisible enemy, a cat probably, and squeaked in its high pitched shrill. Johnathan took off his glasses and tiredly rubbed his face with his hand. This was all the same. Now, in about five minutes, it will have a heart attack and be the final mouse going down the toilet. 

The squeaking gradually became quieter, then stopped. Johnathan glanced up from under his hand. The mouse lifelessly slacked in the corner. Sighing, he opened the cage and took it out by the tail. Tossing it into the toilet, he apathetically watched it swirl round the sides before disappearing in the drain. 

Grabbing his keys, Johnathan walked out of his apartment. It was a Saturday, and he didn't feel like working. Passing the college buildings, Johnathan accidentally glanced into the old church. A lonely figure sat on the graffitied benches. The figure awfully looked like Heath. Johnathan leaned on the doorway. 

"Skipping?"

"Huh?" Heath turned around. "Oh it's you..."

Johnathan walked down the aisle and sat down by him. Heath was confusedly shuffling the cards. 

"Do you know a city starting on a y and pertaining to World War II?" 

"Yalta?" Johnathan proposed, eyes following the slow, like in slow motion, falling of the cards on Heath's palm. They froze. 

"Really?" Heath asked in amusement. Johnathan nodded. Heath sighed and began to shuffle them again. Johnathan stretched his legs, head slightly tilted. His eyes grazed the broken window. 

"How are your things going?" Heath asked, looking down at his cards. Johnathan's lips slightly twitched in irritation. 

"All the mice died." 

"Ask for guinea pigs," Heath suggested, looking up at the intern. 

"They probably don't have them," Johnathan wearily answered, taking off his glasses and closing his eyes. 

"It's easier to perform on humans."

"Me, you mean?" Heath specified.

Johnathan shook his head, not opening his eyes. "No, I meant myself. Maybe some of the hospital staff, but less likely. I can't risk my position here. After all, I'm just an intern." 

"And don't forget that," Heath finished. A joker card accidentally slipped his hand, sending the entire deck spilling on the floor. Cursing under his breath, Heath lowered down under the benches and began picking them up. Johnathan continued to sit with closed eyes. After a moment, Heath appeared back again.

"Do you have your chemical by the way?" He asked, blowing the dust off the cards and glancing at Johnathan. The intern opened his eyes and looked at Heath. 

"Do you think I carry chemicals around with me?" 

Heath shrugged.

"You certainly look like a person who will."

Johnathan suddenly smirked and took out a small tube from his pocket.

"So you do carry it around," Heath grinned, taking it from Johnathan and bringing it close to his eyes. 

"For spontaneous experiments." Johnathan crookedly smiled. "If I accidentally see a squirrel in a bush and decide to scare it." Heath slightly smiled and transferred his gaze at Johnathan. 

"Can I try it?" 

The intern shrugged. 

"For pure entertainment and curiosity of what will happen? Sure. I just may not be able to stop you." 

Heath smirked and, tugging off the cork, chugged in half of the colorless liquid. Then, he smacked his lips, trying to feel the taste on his tongue. Johnathan curiously watched him. Heath shifted his gaze on him. 

"Does the effect work after a certain time?" 

Johnathan frowned.

"No, it works immediately," he slowly said, furrowing his brows. Heath waited a little bit, then shrugged, plugging the cork back into the tube. 

"Oh well. Guess it doesn't work on me. Thanks for the experience anyway." He handed the tube back to Johnathan. That one was still frowning.

"Strange. What, are you not afraid of anything?"

Heath began shuffling the cards again. 

"No. Never have been." 

Johnathan thoughtfully tucked the glass tube back into his pocket, thinking about something of his own. The rushing of the students outside the church indicated the end of the third lecture. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. My writing gets somewhat better by chapter 6 (or not, you can argue that in comments, :))  
> Anyway, I want to send HUGE thanks to anyone reading this and to my one reviewer, though I do get a little sad about that. In any case, I hope you enjoy this fic!


	7. Part 1: Gotham Outskirts - Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, folks, I just had to get Winnifred out of Maine (and away from Jack Browning because, god, I just couldn't stand writing about him), so the narrative is slightly fast-forwarded: Winnifred spent the two months or however long she needed and this following chapter is one of her final days in Maine. We'll be soon done with Part 1, and I want to thank everyone reading and commenting this! Enjoy!

What made her think that she could ever manage it? Winnifred silently cursed herself, carrying a glass of water to Margaret. 

"Oh Margie, why did you get sick at this particular moment?" She complained, sitting down at her cousin's side. Margaret didn't answer, silently watching how Winnifred splits open the foil wrap with her nail. Stifling a cough, Margaret stretched out her palm. 

"Swallow this," Winnifred instructed, dropping a tablet into her hand. She waited until her cousin swallowed the pill and drank the water, then tucked the blanket. 

"What will I do without you?" Winnifred quietly said, wincing at the sound of Margaret's cough. Her cousin's sickly eyes flickered upwards. 

"You'll be fine. Just enjoy the food." Margaret thought for a moment. 

"And if you think you feel a spasm coming up, rest." 

Winnifred snorted, standing up and turning away. 

"Spasm coming up.....You are aware they sometimes happen on spot, without any friendly warning?" Winnifred rubbed her forehead. 

"Whatever, Margie....." She turned back around and forced out a tired smile. Before she could say anything else, the doorbell rang. Winnifred quickly kissed her cousin on the cheek and grabbed her backpack. 

"Get well. Don't miss me," she called on the way, slamming the door behind her. Margaret followed her with her eyes. 

Winnifred flung the door opened. Jack tautly smiled to her, offering his hand. Winnifred gave him a tense smile, glancing at the expensive car behind his shoulder. 

“It’s a Ferrari,” Jack noted, catching her gaze. Winnifred looked back at Jack and smiled. 

“If you think that tells me anything, it doesn’t. Don’t forget, we’re technologically, socially, economically, and politically behind every civilization in the world.” 

“Doesn’t sound like the place I came from,” Jack commented, opening the door in front of her. Winnifred broadly grinned. 

“Because morally we’re advanced. And that’s the only thing that matters in this bloody world.” 

***

Jack invited her for dinner since it was their last days in Maine. Technically, it was her and Margaret, but Margaret got sick, so now Winnifred was on her own. The Browning estate was gorgeous. Chandeliers and decorative candle holders, a grand piano in the living room, and a balcony overlooking the sea. Yet it seemed lifeless and marble-like, as if all the liveliness has been vacuumed out like dust. Winnifred tensely drank the bitter wine, not daring to remove her eyes from the plate. She has been noticing with increased worry that Jack has been drinking a lot of wine; he always had a tendency to drink more than usual. Usually, she and Heath would make jokes about it, but now this habit was turning a threatening curve for Winnifred. 

“And I thought you were brave.” 

Winnifred glanced up, pausing her fork from doing circles in her plate. Jack was observing her from the top of his glass.

“Excuse me?” Winnifred tentatively asked. Jack deeply chuckled, rotating the glass in front of his eyes. 

“Here I thought you were brave, and so far, you’ve been spending the entire evening watching your plate. You really can’t handle yourself without Margaret?” 

“Just like you, Jack,” Winifred placed the fork down on her plate and hid her hands on her lap. 

“Doesn’t seem that you’re being very respectful to your guests.” 

“Guest,” Jack merrily corrected her, twisting the glass by its leg. Winnifred went silent, cautiously observing him, her shoes uncomfortably rubbing on the back of her feet. Suddenly, Jack lowered down the glass on the table and stood up, walking around the table and stopping in front of Winifred with an outstretched hand. 

“Will you accompany me for a dance?” 

Winifred’s insides churned into butter, peppered with salty fear. 

“Without music?” She raised her eyebrows. Jack sarcastically snorted. 

“We can do without.” 

Winnifred pressed her lips together, then took his hand and stood up. Jack’s fingers crushed her hand with unexpected force; Winifred desperately clenched her teeth to sustain herself from wincing. Jack unevenly led her to the living room and stepped in front of her. Winifred sensed sweat slip down her palm and soaking into Jack’s. Shit. Winifred focused on his shoulder, careful not to look up. She was fully aware of Jack’s alcohol-stanched breath, scorching her curls, and his intent, surgeon-like gaze, dissecting her features with a sharp scalpel. Jack’s fingers tightened on her waist. 

“Do you know why I invited you?” 

Winifred lowered her head to hide her scrunching nose from the bitter smell of the alcohol pouring down at her. 

“Because you’re a gentleman?”

Jack quietly, but hysterically laughed, digging his fingers into Winifred’s waist. 

“Do you seriously think that?” He chuckled, eyes burning like coals. 

“No. But if I said what I actually think I would be regard myself lower than I usually do.” 

“Truly? What about your dear Heath?” Jack snarled, bringing his face up close to Winifred. 

“I don’t think he’ll regard you any lesser if you said whatever shit you have to say.” 

“How many glasses did you drink?” Winnifred muttered through her clogged up throat. Jack sneered. 

“Who cares? You didn’t answer my question.” 

“I care because I don’t want to be dancing with a drunkard.” 

“Well, you are already so answer my damn question,” Jack rudely cut her and pulled her closer to himself. Winifred's face scrunched in tension, eyes still avoiding direct eye contact. 

“Do you know why I brought you here?” Jack hissed into her ear. 

“I’m. Not. Interested.” Winnifred gritted through her teeth, her conscience yelling and cursing her in her brain. She pressed her hands against his chest, trying to break contact, but Jack was much stronger when he was drunk. 

“When I saw you the cemetery, my first thought was if you still shook about with Heath,” Jack quietly continued, eyes wildly searching Winifred's face.

“I know what you think of me; It’s about the same of what I think of you.” Jack was quiet for a moment, ignoring her attempts to let go. His face became darker, almost sober. 

“And when you started speaking, I instantly saw that nothing changed. You were still a dumb girl who wanted some adventure and found it in the most dumb way possible.” 

“And you’re still an annoying asshole,” Winifred shot back, furiously glaring at him. Her conscience pleaded her to stop her train, carrying vulgar and provocative cargo, but it was too late. 

"Want to know why I chose Heath? He's the most living person I've ever met, and you're just a constantly shitting mouthpiece that has nothing behind dollar bills and fucking.” 

Winifred tore her hands from Jack’s grasp and now, heavily breathing, glared at him. The sound of the tides evenly resonated through the room. Jack slowly straightened out his back, his face hiding in the shadows of the setting sun. 

“What inspirational words, Lewly,” he quietly said. “But here’s a catch; one day, you’ll stop being a simple Gotham Local, you’ll move on in your career….and I’d like to see how you'll stay with Heath who would still be wearing his decade old trench coat and dealing cards.” 

Winifred wordlessly slapped him across his face. She didn’t understand what she was doing. The next few seconds were clear. Winnifred turned on her aching heels, grabbed her coat, and ran out of the house. 

***

The dust scattered under her feet, clutching onto the hem of her dress and residing on her ankles. Winnifred didn’t care. She just ran, ran, with only one thought ringing in her head: I knew it, I bloody knew it….

She ran into the door with full force, wildly grasping the handle. She knocked, but no one answered. Winnifred nervously chewed her lip, her adrenaline turning into anxiety. Why was no one answering? 

Suddenly, the door she was currently breaking her knuckles on, flung open. 

"Winnie!" Aunt Martha enclosed her into a suffocating bear hug. Winnifred gladly answered it, patting her aunt on the back. 

"Oh my dear, you look...horrible!" Aunt Martha finally said, pulling away from her niece and examining her with a critical eye.

"Oh, auntie," Winnifred impatiently swatted her off, closing the door behind her. "Just because I ate a third of what I'd usually eat doesn't mean I'm going to die. C'mon, what's with Margaret?" 

Aunt Martha sighed. 

"Nothing good. Slight pneumonia. She's better now of course...." 

Winnifred ignored her last words, instead racing up the stairs. Grabbing the shaky door knob, she skidded on the slippery rug and flung the door open. 

"Margie!" 

Margaret was standing next to the window, a Scottish checkered blanket over her shoulders. She turned around in surprise. 

"Winnifred?" Her voice was husky, as if coming out from a weak throat. Winnifred silently hugged her. Margaret smirked. 

"Auntie already told you my sad tale and how I'm standing one foot in the grave?" She sarcastically scoffed. Winnifred frowned. 

"Nothing funny," she retorted. "You need rest." 

She forcefully made Margaret to lie back in bed, then raced back into the kitchen, cursing the teapot for its slowness, then scurried back up again. 

"Drink," she commanded, ignoring the scalding heat of the cup in her hands, and shoved it into Margaret's face. 

"Some things never change," her cousin sighed and obediently took the cup with her blanket. She took a tiny sip, grimacing from the heat and glanced up at Winnifred with squirmy eyes. 

"So? How was it?" Margaret croaked. Winnifred shrugged, sitting on the tip of the bed. Winnifred looked away. 

“What?” Margaret lowered the cup from her mouth. “Did something happen?” 

“I and Jack had a very nice exchange about our past,” Winnifred sighed. “Specifically about Heath." 

She took her jacket off and tossed it on the stool across the room. The jacket plopped right next to it. Swearing through her teeth, Winnifred picked it up and dropped it on the stool. 

Margaret was quiet for a moment, then lowered back again into the pillows, pressing the cup against her lips. Winnifred thought that she should go shower, but somewhere all her strength hid in some previously unknown nooks. Margaret reached for a camera lying next to her bed and handed her over to Winnifred. 

“What’s this for?” she asked in surprise. 

“To cheer you up,” Margaret responded with a sly grin. “Unlike you, I’ve been taking photos.” 

Winnifred smirked and turned the camera on. An image instantly popped on on the screen. Winnifred thoughtfully looked at the photo of a moose, wandering right at foot of the waves, faraway cliffs rising behind him. Her thumb absently rubbed the button, then lightly pressed on it. After him was a photo of a little raccoon, caught while scavenging through their backpacks. Winnifred frustratingly dug her nail into the button, scrolling the photos back, skipping the enormous collection of scenery. Cliffs, lakes, pines, valleys, gorges, mountains, ocean, sailboat, Margaret, poor lit party room......Winnifred abruptly lifted her thumb off the button. Heath, Billy, Charlotte, and her brightly grinned at her from the photo.

_"God damn you Billy, you stepped on my foot!"_

_"Whoops." That one tugged Charlotte along with Winnifred with his arm. His awkward movement wrinkled the cloth on their backs._

_"Are you fucking ready yet?" Sammy impatiently tapped the camera, glancing from above._

_"How come I always hold the camera?"_

_"Be careful, don't drop it," Winnifred rose her brows in warning, hands, positioned behind Billy and Charlotte's backs, itching to get her camera from Sammy. Heath chuckled._

_"You're not pretty enough," he joked, nodding towards Sammy. Charlotte broadly grinned._

Winnifred slowly pressed the button again. Heath, Johnathan, and her flashed on the screen. They were in front of some sort of mechanical construction, hidden behind the glass.

_"Take the glasses off, Johnathan, you look better without them," Heath ordered, staring at the camera._

_"And don't forget to properly smile," Winnifred added, glancing sideways at him. Johnathan didn't look at her, but his hand slowly clenched into a fist and slightly hit her on her back._

Winnifred grinned, looking at the photograph. It was one of her favorites. Johnathan both took off his glasses, and smiled, which made him look much more menacing. The tenth graders were having a field trip to a science museum lost somewhere in the middle of the plains fifteen miles away from the outskirts. The teachers didn't trust themselves enough to handle a horde of wild, reckless, absolutely and completely nonredeemable highschoolers, so they asked for some adult volunteers. Fair enough. Heath and Winnifred brought Johnathan, rarely compliant those days. His mere presence was enough to quiet down the entire grade. Well, except two. But those don't count. 

For a while, it was quiet in their bedroom, one woman observing the photograph, while the other one observed her. 

"We're leaving in five days, you know that right?" Margaret finally said. 

"I know." 

"Kind of unbelievable, right?" 

"A little." 

"Did you miss them?" Margaret thought she heard a suppressed sigh. 

"Honestly, I never got a chance to. Is that bad?" She craned her neck to look at Margaret. Her cousin chuckled at Winnifred's naively worried face. 

"It's normal. You guys needed a break from each other." 

"God knows how Heath will kill me," Winnifred mumbled to herself, closing her eyes. 

"Just the thought of Browning makes him furious." 

"And you spent an entire evening with him," Margaret added, vainly holding back a laugh. 

"Might as well order tombstone flowers right now," Winnifred whispered, mind already inundated in sleep. Margaret smiled and tucked her fully inside the bed. 


	8. Part 1: Gotham Outskirts - Chapter 8

The TV dumbly mumbled on its full volume, vivid images flashing on the small screen. Heath stared at it, not paying attention to the news. They gathered at Billy's house, Sammy with them, and were currently making a break from cards. Heath thoughtfully twisted the bottle between his fingers. Today were the seminars, but he decided not to go. The TV showed an image of a train accident. The ambulance was transporting the victims. Sighing, Heath grabbed the remote and switched the channel. The next channel was wildlife. Close front was a moose, behind the animal were rugged cliffs and the sea. Heath felt something clench inside him. He needed to calm himself down, immediately. 

"I'm gonna go, Bill," Heath threw on the way to the man in the kitchen. 

"Not staying for the next round?" 

"No." Heath quietly closed the door behind him. 

***

_Dear Freddie,_

_I am writing this to calm myself down. This always helps me calm down. A weird medicine, right?_

_The seminars just ended. Everyone mostly did fine. You're in luck. Charlotte got a job in your company today. Despite its dumbness, our little town does have its pluses - where else can you ace the final exam and a job in the same fucking day?_

_I was just wondering; how would we know that you're coming back? You didn't tell us at the station, nor can you tell us now. But I know you. You're creative._

_Unlike me._

_Hope you're well,_

_Heath_

***

Winnifred anxiously listened to the dial tone, curling the chord around her finger. If her aunt didn't know the phone number, Winnifred honestly didn't know what she would do. The four days passed by in a blur, Winnifred mostly stayed inside, helping Margaret to recover. She still couldn't believe that tomorrow she'll be in home, with Heath and Johnathan. It didn't feel like an entire month, probably because of the nerve draining dilemma with Browning, but now that it was more or less (somehow) resolved, Winnifred felt how the nostalgic void shyly crawled back into her mind. Aunt Martha walked by, medicine in hand. She warily glanced at her niece and the table she was sitting on.

"Still waiting?" 

Winnifred nodded. 

"It's always like that with interstate connections," her aunt shook her head in displeasure. 

"By the way, I met your Jack Browning on the market." 

Winnifred expectantly raised her brows, waiting for the answer. 

"He said that he would return back to Gotham Outskirts." 

Winnifred, who was already sitting dangerously on the edge, toppled over, sending telephone crashing over her. Thankfully, she caught it right when it was about to smash the floor. Winnifred raised her wide eyes at her aunt. 

"You're joking right? You know, to get me off the table?" 

"Not the slightest," Aunt Martha smirked, watching how Winnifred scrambled back on the table. 

"Even though you shouldn't be sitting on it." 

"Why...why is Jack coming back? He hates our town!" 

"He says he has some business in Gotham, but doesn't have a residence there yet." 

Winnifred frowned as she rose the telephone back to her ear. Aunt Martha walked up to her and slightly hugged her by the shoulders. 

"Don't think about it, dear. All'll be well." Winnifred watched her walk back on the second floor. She heard the door open upstairs and her aunt greeting Margaret. Winnifred felt sick. 

"Hello? Low Gotham Hospital listening?" A young, female voice cut through the receiver. Winnifred instantly clutched the phone, hands sweating against the red plastic. 

"Hello? Low Gotham Hospital? May I have intern Johnathan Crane to the phone? It's very important." 

"Who are you?" The voice sounded suspicious. "And no, I can't call him up to the phone." 

"My name is Lockwood, Janet Lockwood," Winnifred quickly blubbered into the phone, pleading that that blonde girl at the reception desk won't hang up. Lockwood? Probably some dude from history class.

"My aunt is suffering from the most critical stage of schizophrenia, she's his constant client, please, it's very important, I have to discuss one very crucial matter with him....." 

"Why don't you call the doctor then?" 

Winnifred impatiently clicked her tongue. 

"If it's this hard to get to a simple intern, how do you suppose it is to call a doctor? Please, miss, it's very important." 

By the way the girl fumbled Winnifred understood that she persuaded her.

"I'll see what I can do," she finally mumbled. "Wait a minute." 

Winnifred heard her call on the other phone. She nervously wiped her sweaty hand on her jeans. She didn't speak to Heath or Johnathan for more than a month. It was kind of nerve racking, in a good way. She heard an irritated male voice sound somewhere in the distance, and her heart leaped in anticipation. 

"Miss Clarke, do explain yourself why you're calling me here in the middle of the day...." 

"Ms. Lockwood, your constant client, has an important matter to discuss with you...." 

Winnifred felt extremely bad for Miss Clarke on the other end. 

"What Lockwood? I have no such client," the man snapped and took the phone from Clarke's hand. 

"Yes?" He impatiently said into the receiver. Winnifred sighed and gripped the phone. 

"Hello, Johnathan," she tiredly replied. 

Johnathan furrowed his eyebrows, then looked back at Clarke. The girl was anxiously looking at him. Johnathan slowly walked around the desk, blocking her from his view. 

"Yes, Miss?" He quietly asked, softening his voice. "How can I help you?" 

Winnifred felt a sting in her eyes. 

"Someone needs to pick us up when we come. I didn't tell you the date, right?" She sadly smiled at these words. Johnathan was quiet for a moment.

"When would you like to make the appointment?" His words echoed in the receiver. Winnifred clutched the phone. 

"Tomorrow, at four o'clock. Don't bring Heath. I want it to be a surprise." She heard Johnathan sigh. 

"Alright, miss. Anything else?" 

"Yes," Winnifred hesitated for a moment,"How is everyone?" 

Johnathan slightly smiled. 

"Alright, miss," he repeated. Winnifred sighed.

"Thank you." She lowered the phone and slowly dropped it down. Johnathan heard the dial tone and lowered the phone, looking at it as if figuring something out.

"Tell the doctor that I'll be out at four o'clock tomorrow," he slowly ordered Clarke, not looking at her. 

"She lives way out of town and doesn't have the suitable enough condition to walk here. I'll come there and examine her aunt." He turned to Evangeline and handed over the phone. 

"Did you write everything down?" 

"Yes, sir," Clarke thoughtfully chewed on the tip of her pen. "Strange, I never heard of her." 

"You work here already six months, right?" Johnathan impatiently flipped through the planner, glancing over the appointments he had for today. 

"That's right, sir." 

"Well, miss, I treated her about three months before you came. May I have the pen?" Clarke hastily handed him over her blue ballpoint pen. Johnathan wrote something down in one of the days. 

"We thought we stabilized her condition, but apparently not quite." He slapped the planner closed and handed the pen back, already walking away. 

"Thank you, Clarke." 

"You're welcome, sir.” 

Johnathan walked into a cabinet shared with Richard and sat down at one of the two tables. Richard glanced up at him from across the room. 

"Why'd she call you?" 

Johnathan flipped over a page of his dissertation and began crossing out paragraphs. 

"She..." he flipped back again and began rereading what he wrote. Richard patiently waited. Johnathan pressed his lips and crossed something out on the second page too. Richard irritably twitched his lips.

"Yes, she what?" He frustratingly repeated. Johnathan glanced at him. 

"It was a phone call from one of the patients. I needed to answer it." 

"Oh," Richard visibly relaxed, slouching back in his chair. "Who was it?" 

"Does it matter?" 

Richard slightly sniffed in annoyance. Despite all of his attempts to establish any sort of communication with his older colleague, Johnathan responded in cold, curt answers. The young intern should really get used to it, but these replicas still managed to burn to the core. For a while, Richard just watched Johnathan work on the heaps of papers that were in front of him. 

"You're very fond of Evangeline," Johnathan suddenly asserted, not looking up at his colleague, who looked sick both from surprise and the statement.

"How do you know? I mean...." Richard bit his tongue. Johnathan slightly fixed the eyeglasses on his nose and roughly crossed something out. 

"I'm a psychologist. It's not hard." 

"Why do you always practice your bloody psycho tricks on me?" Richard finally burst, thrusting the pen across his desk. Johnathan lowered his head, hiding the smile. 

"It's entertaining. But mostly I do it for practice." Johnathan stood up with a sigh and walked open to the window. It was always shuttered. Johnathan slightly pulled two shutter up with his fingers, squinting from the bright sunlight that instantly breached open. A shy light ray skipped across his face, illuminating it at a diagonal and plunging everything else into darkness. 

"You're nervous," Richard observed, inside immensely proud for his medical skills. 

"Really?" Johnathan didn't turn around. 

"Yeah. You don't work as vigorously as usual." 

"Thank you for the observation, Richard." Johnathan lowered his fingers, snapping the shutters shut with a painful crack. Turning around, he walked back to his desk and resumed his work. Richard clicked his tongue. You've done it, he crossly thought to himself. Now he won't talk for the rest of the day. Richard sadly stared at his own pile of papers and began sorting them with a sigh. 

The clock hand slowly approached six. Richard glanced up at it. Two minutes before six. He anxiously chewed his lip and glanced at the intern sitting across the room. If it was Harrison or Joe, Richard would have long been out ten minutes before the established time. However, it was Johnathan, and the young intern was determined to prove his patience and diligence to the older colleague, who, to Richard's frustration, didn't seem at all bothered by the time. Richard glanced back up at the clock. Still two minutes before six. The intern sighed and looked on his papers. He didn't move very far, and even now the sentences blurred into one black and white blob. Richard painfully tried to write something else, but his brain was already painting him the various ways he would spend his time with. He glanced at the clock again. Six. Richard instantly got up, shoving the papers into his folders. Johnathan calmly continued writing. The young intern hesitated, crumpled papers sticking out from his fist. 

"Um....Johnathan? Are you going?" 

"Duty," Johnathan replied, not looking at Richard. That one snorted inside. Duty, yeah right. As far as he knew, it was Joey's turn. 

"Isn't it's Joey today?" Richard voiced his doubts aloud. Johnathan raised his eyes, looking at the man next to the door in irritation. 

"What is your habit of asking everyone why they aren't doing what you are? Can't you just leave without any useless questions?" He asked, barely hiding his exasperation. Richard hastily jerked the door on himself and scurried outside. Walking home, he mercilessly scolded himself, asking why the bloody hell he is trying to come on good terms with a psychic psychologist. 

Once alone, Johnathan quickly opened the drawer in his desk and pulled out a small tube. Standing up and walking around, Johnathan shoved the papers to the side and sat on the desk. He thoughtfully studied the glass. Technically, he could use it again today and write down the results for his dissertation. Johnathan sighed and looked at the window. Bashful sunlight eyelashes flapped from under the shutters. Johnathan looked back at the cold tube, rolling back and forth in his palm. Then, he abruptly closed his fist and tucked the tube in his inside his inner pocket. Johnathan knew what would may follow if he took the compound, and he didn't want Freddie to see his condition. Johnathan slid off the desk with a sigh and began gathering his papers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for the reading! Comments and kudos strongly appreciated!


	9. Part 1: Gotham Outskirts - Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrightie folks, this is the end of part 1! Consider it the happiest of all parts (even though part 2 is also pretty lighthearted until halfway), because the rest is just depressing. I'll take a three day break before posting the first chapter of part 2. I hoped you enjoyed the exposition section of the story (yeah, I know, I take forever to get anywhere, but I hope I established the characters _somewhat_ ). Please, leave kudos and comments on what you think so far! Feel free to make bets on what's gonna next! :) Thank you to everyone who followed me so far! Thank you!

Winnifred began walking back and forth the aisle two hours before they arrived. She was nervously cracking her fingers, sharply bending them one after another. Aunt Martha crossly followed her with her eyes. 

"Sit down, Winnifred, you're getting on everyone's nerves," she snapped after Winnifred accidentally tripped over someone's baggage. Quietly apologizing, she walked up to her seat, mercilessly watched by her aunt, and silently climbed over Margaret to sit next to the window. Her blue eyes anxiously darted from one point in the window to another, green trees and rolling hills reflecting in her eyes. Aunt Martha heavily sighed and returned to her book. Margaret was sleeping. 

Winnifred clutched her hand on her seat, arm slightly shaking to the beat of the train. Anticipation clenched the inside of her throat in a strange fist. The insides of her stomach slightly trembled. 

When there was only an hour left, Aunt Martha glanced above her book at her youngest niece. Winnifred closed her eyes, seemingly asleep. To a stranger, her face may have been calm, but Aunt Martha knew that the slight crook at the corner of her lips, as well as the barely visible crease above her brows gave away Winnifred's alertness. The train jolted, and Winnifred abruptly opened her eyes wide. She wasn't sleeping. Aunt Martha watched her niece's fingers travel across the metal rim at the bottom of the glass window, eyes wide open as if waiting for some sort of impulse. The train slowed down, the platform racing in front of the windows. Winnifred slowly stood up and pulled the window down. Her eyes tried to catch a familiar face in the blur of people that passed across her view. Brown work hats, waving hands, scarfs flying in the wind, blonde woman, a black poodle barking somewhere at the end of the platform, old faces, young faces....

"Damn it," Winnifred pushed harder on the window, trying to budge it down a bit more. The train now simply rocked back and forth. Winnifred glanced up again, desperately looking for the familiar face in the crowd, which now lunged at the train, ready to dissect it and escape with its insides. Johnathan hates crowds, he's wise enough to stand in the back of the crowd, waiting for me to see him.....

And Winnifred saw him. He was standing next to a bench near the stairs leading down, a huge bouquet of flowers in his hands. Winnifred spasmodically jerked her hand up, then down, uncertain if he seen her or not, then up again. Even from the distance, she saw Johnathan smile and wave back. Winnifred's lips twitched in a grin, hesitating at first, then stretching across the entire face, painfully cutting at the edges. Winnifred felt anxiety let go in her throat, then abruptly pulse back. She hastily turned around, grabbing everything she saw into her bag. Aunt Martha chuckled and leaned forward, slightly shaking Margaret by the knee.

"Margie, wake up, lovey....." 

Margaret mumbled something in return. Winnifred jerked the book out of her aunt's hand and shoved it inside. Zipping the bag up with an ear ripping sound, Winnifred looked around if she missed anything. The people around them began standing up with unforgivable speed. Winnifred pressed her lips in impatience, then turned back to the window. Johnathan already disappeared behind the crowd which was jumping in front of the train. Aunt Martha glanced at her and shook Margaret again. 

"Wake up, dear, or else your cousin may explode any minute...."

Margaret blinked, staring at her aunt in confusion. 

"We arrived?" She finally asked. 

"Yes, yes, we arrived, c'mon, let's go, we'll be late..." Winnifred quickly shooed Margaret off her seat, completely waking her cousin up, and pulled the suitcase down. Banging it down on the floor, slightly toppling back on a gentleman with a black coat, Winnifred brushed the hair out of her eyes and glanced at her aunt, still sitting. 

"Johnathan's at the very end, so don't look for him in crowd. He has a lot of flowers. May I go now?" 

Aunt Martha laughed, standing up and waking out into the aisle. She held a hand out to Margaret.

"Run off, my dear." 

Which is exactly what Winnifred did, even though auntie and Margaret were not far behind her. Winnifred was stopped however, by a woman with brown hair, and an old man with a cane in front of her, and a young student in a red, knitted sweater with "Maine" written on it. Winnifred bit below her lips and leaned over to see how long the line stretched. Not long, someone was just taking out the baggage and blocked the way. Winnifred thoughtfully dragged her teeth across her bottom lip and sighed. Margaret behind her took the suitcase out of her hand. Winnifred turned around with an inquiring look. 

"So you wouldn't kill anyone while you run," her cousin explained, eyes twinkling. Winnifred smirked and turned back around. The line was not moving. Winnifred leaned over the seat, clenching its cushion with her fingers. The family was taking out a stroller. Winnifred held herself back from sighing and straightened out, hand resting on seat. The line jerked and started moving. Winnifred clutched her bag and quickly started after the woman in front of her. Grabbing the metal rails with slightly sweaty hands, Winnifred looked up at the clear blue sky, inhaling in the sweet summer air, the one that could only be here. The sound of her town was deafened by the crowd's welcoming, but it rang in every word. Winnifred quickly stepped down, the smile never coming off her face and shoved through the crowd. Bags, elbows, hands, flowers appeared in front of her face, someone almost hit her with their outstretched hand, someone else stepped on her foot, but Winnifred didn't mind, confidently making her way, fingers numbing on the strap of her bag. She didn't see Johnathan, but she was sure he was here. Roughly pushing a person out of the way, she stumbled out of the crowd and ran, ran with all her might towards the smiling intern. 

"Johnathan!" Winnifred clasped her hands around his neck, hugging him as much as she could. His flowers, showered in dew drops, were pressed against her chest, dampening her shirt. 

"Oh, Johnathan!" She started kissing him, on the cheek, forehead, slightly above the nose, before hugging him again. Johnathan was laughing, flowers preventing to hug her back, patiently tolerating her burst of emotions.

"There, there, you'll ruin the flowers," he gently pushed her back, fixing the flowers in his hands. Winnifred happily looked at him. He hasn't changed at all; same eyeglasses, sleeves-rolled-up working shirt with a loosely knotted tie, and the face of a dedicated scientist. Johnathan, fixing the flowers one last time, handed her over a small bouquet of may lilies and dark purple violets. 

"Welcome home," he said, smiling. Winnifred glanced at him in affection, stroking the fragile stems with the tip of her finger. 

"Oh Johnathan, really....." She brought the flowers to her face and inhaled the magnificent scent. For a while, Winnifred just stood on the platform with closed eyes, a faint smile written on her lips. 

"They're beautiful," Winnifred quietly said, opening her eyes. "Thanks." 

Johnathan smiled. His eyes flickered above her head. Winnifred noticed a small wrinkle skate above his eyebrows and quickly turned around. Margaret, with Aunt Martha not far behind her, was approaching them, crookedly walking from the weight of the suitcase. Johnathan shot Winnifred a loaded look. 

"Making your cousin do everything?" 

"She volunteered," Winnifred instantly rebuffed, not at all hurt by his comment. Johnathan smirked and took a step towards Margaret.

"Freddie's not letting you enjoy your life at its maximum, right Miss Margaret?" Margaret allowed herself to grin as Johnathan took the suitcase from her hand. 

"Welcome back, miss." 

"Thank you, Johnathan." Margaret sniffed the tender, rosy margaritas. 

"They're lovely." 

Aunt Martha accepted her portion of white lilies with a warm smile, tucking her ticket into her purse at the same time. 

"Good to see you, young man. I'm sorry for all the worry we caused you with our arrival." 

"It's alright, ma'am," Johnathan assured her, starting towards the staircase. 

"I borrowed a local ambulance car, so you should be home shortly." 

Winnifred held back a smirk and followed him. Low Hospital ambulances weren't very different from other rare cars that appeared at Gotham outskirts. A simple grey van with a faded red cross smeared on its indented side. Johnathan opened the trunk and lifted their suitcase in. 

"There are seats inside," he proposed, turning to the women. "Enough for three."

"Well, I think it only makes sense if Winnie sits with you," Aunt Martha winked to Margaret, beaming at Winnifred's attempt to hide her pleased expression. 

"Margie and I will make ourselves comfortable inside. C'mon." 

Winnifred eagerly climbed into the front seat, slamming the door behind her. Johnathan climbed in also, quickly starting the engine. For the first part of the way, they traveled in silence, van bumping against the dusty ground. Winnifred looked at the familiar surroundings in awe, occasionally sniffing the flowers and glancing at Johnathan. He caught her glance and smirked. 

"My best guess is that you're too astounded to speak, so you refrain to silence. Am I correct?" 

Winnifred laughed, shaking her head. 

"Absolutely. God, it feels like a thousand years passed, not some thirty days!" 

Johnathan sighed at her words, turning to the left. The green trees flashed behind the windows, their vividness hurting Winnifred's eyes. She turned away. 

"And it's already summer," she quietly commented. Then, Winnifred abruptly rolled the window down. The sound of a rushing current filled the passenger compartment. Winnifred thoughtfully drummed her finger on the button, listening to the river, before pressing the button. 

"It's so different," Winnifred sighed, the window slowly rolling back up. The river abruptly fell silent. 

"Time didn't wait for you, that's for sure," Johnathan a bit gruffly responded, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. Winnifred answered him with a sad stare and turned away. 

"How's it been here? Fine?" 

"As a psychologist," Johnathan slowly said, watching her reaction,"I lean towards the diagnosis that my old client, already quite dull and shallow from the start, had entirely lost its soul and thus intrigue. But now I hope it will soon recover." 

Winnifred chuckled, looking back at him. Johnathan winked to her, then transferred his attention back to the road, the edges of his lips slowly lowering back to seriousness. Winnifred, with a faint smile on her lips, sorted the flowers on her lap. 

"Where did you get these?" She asked, lifting a may lily up to her eyes. The sunlight played on the white petals. 

"In the meadows, near the brook."

Winnifred nodded, admiring the violets in her outstretched hand.

"How is everyone?" Winnifred placed the flowers back onto her lap and gathered them in one bouquet. 

"How were you and Heath this month?" 

"Nothing special. I was working at the hospital," Winnifred noticed how Johnathan almost unnoticeably hesitated at that moment," while Heath was....I don't know actually. He looked pretty down all this time." 

Winnifred nodded, thinking something to herself. They were quiet for a while.

"Did you miss me?" Winnifred suddenly asked, jokingly tilting her head. Her eyes mischievously glimmered. 

"Not really, work you know," Johnathan calmly turned right.

"Johnny!" Winnifred laughed, teasingly slapping him on his knee with her flowers. Johnathan laughed as well, glancing at Winnifred from under his eyeglasses. Winnifred, still chuckling, turned away. She smiled all the way home.

They arrived at their small house shortly. Johnathan stopped the van and rested his wrists on the wheel. 

"Alright, do you want to meet Heath today or do you need some time to come to your senses?" He inquired, expectantly looking at her from his eyeglasses. Winnifred snorted. 

"You're a psychologist, you should know better," she sarcastically noticed. 

"So," Johnathan leaned back on the seat, dropping one hand down on his knee. His other one gripped the wheel. 

"I'll run this car back to the hospital, then come to the mill. It should be enough time for you to change and do whatever you want to do. Deal?" 

"Deal," Winnifred happily nodded and jumped out. 

"Anything else you want me to do?" Johnathan asked, right before she slammed the door shut. 

"No, Johnny, we're good," Winnifred shook her head. "Thanks a lot." 

The intern nodded, and she closed the door. 

***

"Did you pick the card?" Heath impatiently asked the small red haired boy. 

"Yup," the bonny lad cheerfully answered, looking at the card. His little auburn curled sister was sitting next to him. 

"Did you memorize it?" 

"Yes." 

"Did you memorize it well?" 

"Yes, yes, yes, do it already!" The little girl happily bounced in anticipation. Heath gave her a broad grin and looked back at her brother. 

"Place it in the middle then." The boy plopped the card into into the place where Heath instructed. Heath took the cards and opened it in front of his eyes. Here it is; the queen of spades in the midst of crimson diamonds and hearts. Heath grinned, looking at the captivated kids from above his cards. 

"Where are you darling, come, don't hide from Mister Heath," he purposefully mused, shuffling the queen, slightly making it stick out, second to first. For credibility, he moved a few cards also. The children giggled at his words. Heath winked to them and, closing the cards together, covering the top of the sticking out queen, and showed the first card to them. The warm evening wind shuffled the leaves on the mill's creaky boards. 

"Is it that one?" Heath quickly asked. 

"No," the boy triumphantly declared. 

"No?" Heath pretended to be incredibly surprised, raising his eyebrows almost to the top of his forehead. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes," The boy confirmed, satisfaction written in bold letters on his face. The little girl covered her mouth, not able to hold back the giggles that escaped from it. 

"Yes, yes, yes," she repeated. 

"Strange," Heath titled his head in confusion, and slid the queen, which, considering the light speed movement, for the kids looked like the first card, face down on the floor. 

"Not that one then." Heath shuffled the cards a bit more and showed the first random card that was under his hand. 

"What 'bout this one?" 

"Nope!" 

Heath bulged his eyes out. 

"What, again?!" 

"Yup, yup, yup!" The little sister jumped around. Heath smirked and placed the card face down next to the first one. 

"How about this?" He flipped the first card, revealing the queen of spades. For a moment, the kids just stared at it, then erupted in a simultaneous current. 

"Wait, how did you do that, the first one was the king of diamonds...." 

"Again, again, again, again!" 

Heath smiled and ruffled her little head.

"Magic, kid, magic." 

"Will you teach me?" The little bunny immediately sprang up. 

"Perhaps later," Heath smiled, slightly moving his foot, numb from his crisscrossed position. 

"When you'll grow a bit older."

"And me?" The boy instantly asked. "Am I old enough?" 

"Not yet, kid," Heath shook his head. "Once you turn eight." 

"Why eight?" 

"I taught Freddie when she was eight." 

"Liar, you taught me when I was fifteen." 

Heath and the kids immediately turned around. Winnifred was leaning on the door frame, arms crossed on her chest. She smiled.

"Hey, kids. How's your mother?" 

"Oh, Miss Freddie, you're finally back!" The little girl scrambled up to her feet and ran towards the woman. She knocked into Winnifred's legs, embracing them with her small hands. 

"You're back, you're back!" The little girl happily chimed, looking up at the woman. Winnifred smiled as she stroked the girl's curls. 

"Yes, Lucy, I'm back." She lifted her head up to look at the boy. 

"No worries, Robbie, I'll teach you all the magic tricks if Heath forgets." 

Robbie, coming back from his initial surprise, followed his sister's example, and now Winnifred was hugged from all sides. She laughed along with the kids, messing their carrot hair as they, interrupting and over talking each other, hurried to tell her all the latest news that she missed. Heath slowly got up to his feet and leaned over the wall. His fingers instinctively shuffled the deck in his hand. 

"Alright, I think your mother already discovered that you ran away somewhere, don't you think so too?" Winnifred asked the immediately embarrassed kids.

"I mean....we haven't been gone for such a long time," Robbie uncertainly responded, looking at his sister. Winnifred patted his on the arm. 

"I think you have been, buddy. Go take your sister home, it's sunset soon." The boy nodded with a sigh and reluctantly took Lucy by the hand. 

"Bye, bye!" The tiny girl waved as her brother exited her out of the mill. Winnifred followed with her eyes the little pair left, then slowly turned back to Heath. He was expectantly watching her. 

"They're good ones, right?" Winnifred smiled, walking up to Heath. He remained silent, eyes studying her face. 

"You have been gone for a long time," Heath finally said. 

"I have," Winnifred quietly agreed. She lightly touched him on the arm. 

"But now I'm back, ain't I?" The touch returned Heath back to reality. Letting the cards fall from his hand, he tightly embraced Winnifred, lifting her up from the floor. 

"Oh, my lovely, most dear, absolutely marvelous Freddie!" Winnifred laughed into his shoulder as Heath slightly twirled her around. 

"You're back from the monstrous place you've been, and now I can properly live again!" Heath quickly kissed her in the cheek and finally placed her feet back on the floor. His eyes studied her face with lightning speed, taking in every line with satisfaction. 

"Oh, Freddie, do you even know what I have been through?" He gently stroked a curl back behind her ear. Winnifred pretended to look serious. 

"You probably ditched class and pulled off another trick with Billy."

"Everyone keeps on saying that," Heath sighed as they walked out into the forest, his arm comfortably resting on her shoulders. 

"But you can't call it the exact truth. I did skip the sessions though." 

"Heath!" 

His laughter rang all the way to the mill, which disappeared behind them in the distance. The cards slightly shivered on the floor. A sudden gust of wind blew into the mill, tossing the cards around the room, before carrying them out into the wild. 

_End of Part 1_


	10. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!! Judging by the amount of reviews and hits I got during my absence, none of you folks really missed me! ;) Oh well, I'll still keep going, because why not, right? 
> 
> I will say that the first couple of chapters of the second part are still lighthearted, but I don't guarantee that for the rest of the part....
> 
> As always, thanks to anyone reading this, leaving kudos, and reviewing the chapters! You folks have no idea how much all of that means to me (and to any author in general :)) It's my first lengthy story and feedback on this really kicks me in the guts (in a good way). Anyways, enough with ranting, on to the story ;) 

"Did you count the monthly and daily losses?" Charlotte asked, burning the calculator with her finger as she speedily drilled numbers on it. 

"Yup," Winnifred sighed, moving the stack of papers away from herself. 

"Done for today." She yawned and stretched. "Do you feel sleepy?" 

"A little." Winnifred twitched her lips, dissatisfied with her friend's answer and looked out the window. The setting sun glistened in the glass. Winnifred sighed and turned away from the luring view. 

"Ten more minutes. Interesting, what do I have to do at home?" 

Winnifred began bending her fingers, brows frowning more and more and she counted. 

"Laundry, mopping, plant watering, oh right, it's my turn for dinner...." Winnifred clicked her tongue in displeasure and sighed, lowering her hands on the table. What a great way to lift her mood. For a while, she observed how Charlotte diligently calculate something. Then, Winnifred began packing her belongings into her small briefcase. 

"Already going?" Charlotte asked, not lifting her eyes up from the papers. 

"Yes. I told you I'm done and it's almost six anyway. See you later." 

Winnifred walked down the, honestly, not very different from any other, hallway. Passing the front desk, she shortly lifted her hand in farewell.

"Good evening, Mr. Birdwell." 

"Good evening, Miss Lewly." 

***

This evening, the air was soft and warm. Winnifred has been working as an accountant in the local financial company for a week now, specifically a week since she's returned from Maine. A lot has changed, of course. For instance, she began dressing a bit like Johnathan in the sense that now she had a dress code to follow. Not that it was extremely strict. Winnifred sometimes wondered if it existed at all. 

Flinging the portfolio over her shoulder, Winnifred enjoyed the gentle air and dark green trees, plunging into the smoky blue evening. Winnifred whistled a random melody under her breath, swinging the briefcase back and forth as she approached the mill. Her whistle abruptly swung off into the wrong key, before fading completely. The mill's door was closed. As far as she remembered, it was never closed. Winnifred quietly approached, trying not to break any twigs and slightly leaned forward. There were voices inside, that was for sure, but she couldn't tell what they were talking about. Deciding that it's probably for Heath's work, Winnifred leaned against the mill's wall, slapping the briefcase in front of her. She waited, aimlessly tracing the surrounding trees with her eyes. Heath still hasn't revealed the core of his profession. Winnifred wondered what it was, but didn't insist that he told her. Something whispered to her that she wouldn't like it.

The door abruptly flung open. Winnifred jolted and looked up. Three men, dressed in leather jackets and just unpleasant overall, walked out. One of them, the tallest, measured her with a disdainful look. Winnifred silently followed them with her eyes and quickly ran up the steps.

"Who are those thugs?" She demanded, flinging her briefcase on the random chair standing near her. Heath was sitting back to her, and it looked as if he was writing something. 

"Business, Freddie, business. Come, make yourself comfortable." Winnifred smirked, looking around. Then, looking back at Heath, she tiptoed behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck. 

"Whom are you writing to?" 

Heath straightened out in his chair, stroking Winnifred's arms, and just shook his head. Winnifred then quickly leaned over him, trying to snatch the letter, but Heath was quicker; grasping the paper off the table, he jumped to his feet, holding the letter high above his head. Winnifred made a wry face. 

"Heath, you know that's not fair!" Heath broadly grinned at her, standing far below his head. 

"Try to catch it," he teased. Winnifred jokingly jumped up, trying to reach it, but unsuccessfully flopped back down. 

"Heath...." 

"What?" 

"Damn you," Winnifred waved him off, giving up. She looked away, then turned back again. Her eyes lit up in interest. 

"Who is it to? A he or a she?" 

"A she," Heath obediently yielded. Winnifred's entire face changed, melting first from curiosity to surprise. 

"Really?!" She grabbed him by the arm, still not believing her ears. 

"Who is it then? Charlotte? Jenny?" Winnifred quietly gasped. "Margaret?" 

"You'll learn someday," Heath smiled. "But you're not allowed to see them before," he warningly added, placing the letter on the shelf. 

"Of course," Winnifred wide-eyed watched the paper softly land on the big stack. She transferred her gaze back on Heath. 

"Wow." 

Heath chuckled and took her by the hand. 

"C'mon, let's go upstairs."

***

_My marvelous Freddie,_

_You don't mind if I still write to you?_

_It's been a week and I still fucking don't believe it. You disappear constantly at your work, just like Johnny. Is that a hint for me to start working too? I have been buying less groceries than usual. Damn it._

_These mob dealers just get on my nerves. Not even worth ripping them off. Whatever._

_I have to remember to tell you about that party we're having next Saturday, you know, end of college and that kind of stuff. I got this._

_Your loyal buddy,_

_Heath_

The attic was partly destroyed at one place. In other words, there was an open hole in the attic's wall and a floor which dangerously extended outwards. That hazardous place was very rightly utilized, filled with a comfortable sofa. Now, Heath and Winnifred were sitting on that sofa, admiring the sleepy sun drag back into the horizon. Winnifred dropped her head on Heath's shoulder, his arm warmly wrapped around her. Her blue eyes traced the pink clouds in the sky. 

"Did you miss me?" 

Heath was silent for a moment. 

"Terribly," he quietly said. Winnifred unnoticeably sighed. 

"So did I." 

"How was it?" Heath asked in curiosity. "You never talk about Maine." Winnifred hesitated for a moment. 

"It was alright." She glanced up at him. "I'll show you the photos. Only later." 

Heath smirked, fingers unwittingly drawing circles on her forearm. 

"Gotcha. Next time we three'll go together." 

Winnifred smiled and lifted her feet up into the couch, snuggling them closer to the pillows. Nightfall quickly collapsed over the town, which immediately flared up in countless little lights from houses. It was like a sea of darkness, or the forest, bordering a sea of lights, or the beginning town. 

"Look," Heath freed his arm from under Winnifred's head and pointed towards the lonely patch of light, shining from the forest. 

"That's the hospital. Hold on," he quickly scrambled from the couch and disappeared somewhere in the attic. Winnifred heard something fall and clang behind her and hugged a pillow closer to her chest. Heath appeared a second later, an old, rusty spyglass in his hands. 

"Is it still in working condition?" Winnifred frowned, eyeing its poor state. 

"Like new," Heath whirled it between his fingers and unrolled it, bringing it up to his eye. 

"Okay, seventh window he said...." 

"Are you trying to find Johnny?" Winnifred asked in curiosity, watching as Heath directs the spyglass across the air. 

"Yup....Here it is, third floor, seventh window and no lonely Rapunzel in sight. Damn it." 

Heath clasped the spyglass with a crack and lowered back down on the couch. 

"Can I have it?" Winnifred took the spyglass from his hand and began studying the surrounding. The glass was old, with low visibility, but Winnifred couldn't tell anything in the darkness below anyway. So, she directed the spyglass up on the stars. 

"Hey, I think I see the Milky Way!" 

Heath took the glass from her and took his portion of observation. 

"I like to observe the stars with full view," He finally said, lowering down the spyglass. Heath looked some more on the forest. 

"What do you see?" Winnifred asked, not really waiting for an answer. 

"I see," Heath slowly said, not looking away from the glass. "A little squirrel nibbling on her...walnut? Or is it hazelnut? Take a bit north and two middle school kids are hooking up under a log....and if we look at the village rim, we see a man....a drunk man actually, reeling his way down the road...." 

"Stop," Winnifred chuckled. For a second, Heath looked away from his glass and winked to her. A moment after, he returned to his glass. 

"Also....hold on. There's a train approaching this town." 

"Really?" Winnifred frowned. For some reason, a shiver ran down her spine. She heard the train whistle echo in the distance.

"Yeah," Heath enthusiastically continued. "Speeding through the night like the Polar Express itself....whatever." 

He lowered the spyglass and threw it behind him into the attic. Winnifred continued sitting there, chewing her lip. 

"By the way, did I tell you that our guys are making a party for the end of college?" 

"No," Winnifred turned to Heath, somewhat relaxing. "When?" 

"Next Saturday. We waited specifically for you, even though if it was my decision, I would exclude you completely. Will teach you how to slack off." 

Winnifred snorted. Heath broadly grinned and tucked her closer to his side. The stars mischievously twinkled from above. Winnifred sighed and stood up. 

"Auntie will be worrying." 

"Yes, of course," Heath agreed, standing up as well. "Do you want me to accompany you home?"

"No, it's okay." Winnifred walked down the stairs, hand sliding down the wide, wooden rail. At the doorway, she turned around. Heath leaned on the frame, taking out a match. Winnifred silently watched how a small fire kindles inside the dark cup of his hands. 

"Are you free tomorrow?" He asked, lowering the cigarette from his mouth. 

"I'm working till six, then I'm taking Margie to the hospital and after that - depending on the circumstances." 

"What is it with her?" Heath frowned. 

"She's gotten worse," Winnifred sighed. "Oh well. See you tomorrow. You're free, right?" 

"We'll see. Good night." Heath quietly closed the door behind her. 

***

It was ten minutes after six. Winnifred walked into her room and thrust the portfolio onto her bed. 

"Are you ready?" 

Margaret lifted her bruised eyes onto her, a blouse trembling in her hands.

"Almost." Winnifred helped her cousin get dressed, buttoning the blouse for her, then escorted her downstairs. It wasn't far to the hospital, but Winnifred still feared that it would drain Margaret of the little strength she had. Holding her cousin by the elbow, cursing her town for the impracticality and the lack of cars and taxis, Winnifred guided Margaret to the hospital. And of course, it was full today. Winnifred glanced around her in irritation, then lowered Margaret into one open chair. 

"Sit here, I'm going to go and fight with the receptionist," she quietly ordered her. Her cousin just nodded, to tired to say anything. Sighing, Winnifred straightened her back and walked over to the desk. 

"Good afternoon, I have an appointment with Dr. Collins for Margaret Houston," she quickly stated, impatiently tapping her fingers. The blonde girl lazily looked through her book. 

"What time?" 

"Right now, at six twenty." 

"Wait a moment, please." Winnifred sucked her cheeks in displeasure, but walked away. 

"Waiting," she crossed her arms on her chest, glancing up and down at Margaret in worry. "How are you?" 

"Okay I guess." Margaret wearily rubbed her face with her hand. The man next to her was called. Winnifred watched him leave then took his seat with a sigh. Ten minutes passed. Winnifred touched Margaret's forehead with the back of her cold hand, sucking in the feverish heat. Winnifred nervously swallowed and lowered her hand. 

"Houston, Margaret!" 

"C'mon, it's us," Winnifred helped Margaret get up by the elbow and led her up to the young intern waiting them. 

"Margaret Houston, is it not? Hello, I am Richard, I will be helping you for the day," Richard enthusiastically chattered. Margaret forced a strained smile. Winnifred didn't bother. Mumbling some sort of "hello", she led Margaret after the intern, who happily rattled all way long. Winnifred glanced around. The corridors were bleak and weary, with benches and their sick clients on the sides. The intern stopped in front of a door, quickly knocking and shoving his head inside. A moment later, he appeared back again.

"I am sorry, but the doctor has another patient right now," Richard apologized, turning to the ladies. 

"Please wait here at the benches." Margaret sat down with a sigh. Winnifred sucked in the air with her nose in irritation and sat down as well. People in white coats darted back and forth the hallways. Winnifred sighed and leaned against the wall. 

"How are you feeling?" She quietly inquired, tilting her head towards her cousin. 

"Freezing," Margaret quietly responded, clasping her fingers in a numb, white knot. Winnifred immediately sprang onto her feet, pulling the jacket off Margaret. 

"Take it off and tie your hair so the neck wouldn't heat up.....damn them," Winnifred gritted through her teeth, glancing at the door. Margaret unconsciously writhed in her seat, overtaken by the fever. Winnifred tensely looked around. Shit, they were alone. Following her impulse, Winnifred knocked on the door and flung it open. 

"Excuse me, but do you have anything antipyretic? My cousin next to me has a fever." 

The doctor and the current client, which looked perfectly fine to Winnifred, stared at her in surprise. Winnifred didn't notice another man behind them until Collins didn't quietly gesture him. 

"Johnathan, please attend the lady outside." Johnathan quickly grabbed something from the shelf and walked outside with Winnifred, who was too concerned to be surprised. 

"What happened?" Johnathan quietly inquired, closing the door behind him. 

"Margaret has a fever," Winnifred quickly explained, watching how the intern lowers down on his knees in front of her cousin. Shaking the thermometer in one hand, feeling Margaret's forehead with the other, Johnathan creased his eyebrows. Winnifred noticed in worry how his eyes darken. 

"Under your armpit," Johnathan shortly instructed. Margaret obediently took the thermometer and, quickly undoing the first three buttons on her blouse, clasped the tool inside. 

"I'll be back in ten minutes," The intern told Winnifred. She nodded. Following him with her eyes, Winnifred placed her hand on Margaret's clenched fist. 

"Everything will be okay," she quietly said, not looking at her cousin. Margaret didn't answer. 

Johnathan came back after eight minutes, another man with him. Winnifred cautiously eyed the second one. Johnathan had a glass of water and a bottle of pills in his hands. 

"Hold this," Winifred received the glass and the bottle. Johnathan took the thermometer out of Margaret's shaking hands and read the mercury. His face was extremely calm. 

"Prepare the room," he coldly ordered the other man. That one took one look at the thermometer and walked away. 

"Wait....what room? What's the temperature?" Winnifred slowly asked, following the man with her eyes. 

"Miss Margaret, how long were you ill?" Johnathan quietly asked instead, kneeling down in front of her. Margaret looked at him with her tired eyes, trying to understand the question. 

"This would be the second week," she finally whispered. 

"And always with temperature?" 

"Yes....well....yes." 

"Margaret, you have a temperature of forty and one," Johnathan quietly said. 

"You have to stay here, until the temperature stabilizes. Do you understand?" 

"Yes," Margaret quietly answered. 

"Wait, what do you mean stay here?" Winnifred impulsively grabbed Johnathan by the arm. 

"Is everything that serious?" 

"Freddie, we start hospitalizing people with the temperature of thirty nine and five. And your cousin has pneumonia. Yes, everything is that serious." Winnifred fell silent, leaning back on the wall. Margaret glanced at her. 

"I'll be fine," she whispered, touching Winnifred's sleeve with the tips of her fingers. Winnifred closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. The man with whom Johnathan came returned back again. 

"Everything is ready," he curtly informed. Winnifred sighed and helped Margaret stand up by the elbow. 

***

The night was extremely humid. It was two o'clock. Winnifred blinked and shook her legs, waking herself up. Her cousin lay on the white bed, undressed and cold compresses patched all over her body. Margaret finally fell asleep around one. Winnifred glanced at the clock and quietly stood up. Johnathan was waiting her outside, sitting on the bench and writing something. When she walked out, he stood up, tucking the clipboard under his arm. 

"How is she?" 

"She finally fell asleep," Winnifred sighed. "Auntie is going to come right now. You know, I can't stay here because of fucking work." Winnifred tiredly rubbed her face with her hand and dropped it back down.

"This is so horrible..." she looked back at the door behind her. Johnathan silently watched her. Winnifred turned back around. 

"Will you look after her her?" She quietly asked.

"Of course," Johnathan easily agreed. Winnifred nodded in thanks, then began down the bleak hallway. Everything inside her seemed pressed down by some immense weight. Winnifred pulled the jacket tighter over herself and turned left to the reception desk. Aunt Martha was standing beside it. She didn't say anything, simply pressed her lips together. 

"Which room?" Aunt Martha simply inquired. 

"Tenth. To the right, third door to the left." Aunt Martha sighed, then patted Winnifred on the arm. 

"Go to sleep, I will watch over her." 

Winnifred nodded and dragged her way outside. She didn't remember how she walked back home, only when she finally entered her and Margaret's room. Her blue eyes fell on the flowers in the vases, the ones she constantly pleaded Margaret not to throw away, despite their withered state. Winnifred apathetically grabbed them, breaking their fragile stems, and tossed them out the window. 


	11. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 2

Charlotte closed her notebook and stretched. The day was unusually cloudy for a summer, but she didn't mind. Pushing in her chair, Charlotte grabbed her bag and left the office, yanking the light switch on her way. The desk next to her was empty. 

Outside wasn't pleasant. Shivering, Charlotte pulled a jacket over her shoulders and started on the dusty road. Her area her work was located in was was mostly peppered in farmhouses, ranches, and prairies, ironically without cattle. There was just a few acres of wheat sickly growing, uselessly guarded by a shaggy scarecrow. Charlotte suddenly tripped, bag flying from her hand. 

"Crap," she quietly swore, kneeling down and picking up her scattered belongings. The accountant sucked in the air in irritation at the sight of her handkerchief, covered in a pretty thick layer of dust. Tugging her bag towards the wooden fence, Charlotte began ordering its insides, unsafely balanced in her fingers. After a while, Charlotte felt someone's heavy gaze burning her profile. Slightly jerking her head, she turned around. Heath was sitting on the fence on the other side, studying her in glum curiosity. Noticing that she saw him, his lips formed into a strained smile, not like the one Charlotte was used to. 

"Evening, Lottie. How did your day go?" 

"Well, thank you. How was yours?" 

Heath didn't answer, looking away. Charlotte narrowed her eyes, passing her tongue over her teeth in thought. 

"Why did you wait for me?" She inquired, nodding his way. Heath's eyes shifted back to her. 

"I didn't wait for you," he slowly answered. Charlotte immediately understood who he meant. 

"Winnifred left early to go to the hospital. Our manager allowed her." Heath nodded, looking away again. Charlotte curiously studied him with her eyes. He looked terrible; there were deep shadows under his eyes, his hair was even more tangled than usual, and the face itself looked sunken and weary. 

"You look awful," Charlotte risked, "Is it because of Winnifred?" 

"That too," Heath tiredly rubbed his hand over his face. "Alright, thanks Lottie." 

He nimbly slid off the fence and began down the dusty road. Charlotte followed him with her eyes until he became to small to see. Her eyes absently transferred back to the small mirror, clenched in her fingers. Charlotte remembered a minute too late why it was there. Sighing, she tossed it inside her bag and continued on her way. 

***

Heath tautly rubbed his finger over his bottom lip, creasing his brows in a troubled thought. The cigarette between his fingers slowly rose up to his lips. Heath scratched the tip of his nose with the side of his thumb and inhaled the smoke from the cigarette with a sigh. He accidentally took too much in and as a result, convulsed in rasp coughing, trying to clear his lungs from smoke. The cigarette inevitably got smashed between his knuckles. Staring down at the ground below him, Heath slightly shook his head to clear his thoughts. His boot smoothed across a small rock, cutting the spider off its escape route and forcing the insect on his boot. Heath kneeled down and positioned his hand right up to the insect's snout. The spider considered this unexpected pathway for a second, then scrambled up with his eight little feet on the cold palm. Heath slowly stood up, observing how the tiny creature quickly maneuvers up and around his fingers and twisted his hand, following the running spider with his eyes. 

"Heath!" Heath glanced up, crumpling his hand and the spider under it. 

"Aye?" 

Riley jumped off the fence, walking up to him. Billy continued sitting on the fence, grimly smoking some weed. 

"What happen?" Heath frowned, exhaling smoke through a rolled upper lip. 

"Grouch refuses to give the building," Riley hastily explained. His pockets nervously twisted; he was probably cracking his knuckles inside. Heath raised his eyebrows. 

"Fucking hell, why not?" 

"He wants money,” Billy spat his weed on the ground and roughly slid off the fence. 

"That old jackass wants money." 

Heath chewed the tip of his cigarette to calm down. 

"Do the others know?" He finally asked. 

"We didn't tell the girls," Billy shook his head. "Why? We'll teach that..." 

"No, no, no Billy," Heath tiredly passed his hand in the air in refusal, forehead creased in weary wrinkles. 

"No fighting this time. We just won't be able to bail ourselves out." 

Billy grimaced. Riley frowned. 

"What then? The price he demands is ridiculous." 

"Where is he?" 

Billy jerked his head towards an unclear direction. 

"There, as always," he bitterly smirked,"Guarding his rooster from college students." 

Heath tossed his cigarette away with a sigh and started right across the field. Billy crookedly grinned and followed him. Riley didn't wait for a permission as well. The dry wheat ears uncomfortably scrubbed the hemline of the pants, little pricks and spikes trailing along. Heath absently hummed under his breath, Billy loudly opened another pack of unknown to science weed of personal creation, while Riley occasionally swatted his pants from the debris that stuck. 

"What were you doing here anyway?" He asked after a while. "You never make it to here, so what's the matter?" The humming stopped. 

"I was waiting for Freddie," Heath answered after a short silence. Billy smirked, tucking the weed under his tongue. 

"Winnifred? Let go off her, man. I doubt she's just as passionate about you as you are of her." 

"Can you let go of your drugs?" Heath harshly responded, fingers spasmodically clenching the sweaty cards inside his pocket. They sickly crumpled under his grasp. Billy shrugged.

"Drugs don't have feelings. Winnie does, and she can literally trample you with them," Riley noticed, accusingly pointing his finger at Heath. That one glanced at him from the corner of his eye. 

"I just know her for a very, very long time," Heath quietly sighed. "It would be rather strange if I didn't care for her or her family." 

"Wanna make a bet?" Riley winked to Billy. 

"Five hundred plus a bottle of Italian wine that you won't repeat these words after, say, ten years?" 

"Eleven," Heath grinned. "Can't stand even numbers.” 

"Eleven it be," Riley seriously concluded and slapped Heath's outstretched hand. Billy snorted. Heath's mood was slightly upraised, when it abruptly plummeted back down. All it took was a simple approach to Jonas Crouch's estate. It was one of the slightly wealthier houses in the microscopic village, having a large living room, well, large rooms, overall, tall windows, and a nicely done facade. However, the nickname Grouch did not come from anywhere. Heath knocked on the metal gates and hastily shoved his open hand to Riley. 

"Glasses, quick!" Heath sloppily fixed the glasses on his nose when Crouch's irritated, old face appeared in front of the young people. 

"Well?" He furrowed his white eyebrows, glaring at them with his fiery eyes. 

"Why'd ya knocking?" 

"Mr. Crouch," Heath sweetly began. "We would like to know why you are refusing to lease your house for just one night. I thought we've settled everything a week ago." 

"We did," Crouch reluctantly agreed. "But it doesn't mean that I can't change my mind!" He instantly fired up. 

"I know you students!" He accusingly jabbed his finger at Heath's chest. The young man calmly leaned on the hinges, listening to the old man. A glimmer of amusement played in his eyes. 

"You get drunk, jump on couches, break all my china, then I'm brushing the entire month!" 

Heath let Crouch take a breath, then slowly took off his glasses and closed them with a small clink. 

"Mr. Crouch," Heath quietly started, looking at his glasses. "I do not like when people don't take their promises seriously." 

His brown eyes darted upwards. 

"I don't think you want to get on my," Heath dryly chuckled,"bad list, right?"

Crouch frowned, unwittingly taking a step back. 

"Is that a threat?" 

"No, that's just me trying to clear up the situation," Heath sighed. "After all, what else do you have to do except clean up your house? Nothing." 

"I won't receive any advice from some sort of youngsters like you," Crouch spat. Billy snorted. 

"Could've just said that you don't like anyone younger than eighty six." 

"Whatever," Heath quickly glanced at his friend beside him. "Mr. Crouch, it's not like we're going to go nuts or something. We've got ladies!" 

"Little sluts," Crouch mumbled. The smile dropped from Heath's face. 

"You're low, Mr. Crouch," he quietly said,"If you have the gut to speak like that about girls you've known since they were toddlers." 

Crouch fell silent, visibly cut by the comment. Heath wasn't sure if he actually regretted his words or worried about his wounded pride. Either way, he wasn't going to continue the conversation any longer. 

"Anyway, however you may think, we are still coming this Saturday. We paid you previously, documented the interaction, as you insisted, and extra money now would simply be illegal on your side." Heath wasn't sure if it was illegal or not, but it worked. Crouch twisted his lips in displeasure.

"Fine, but don't think that...." 

Heath already turned his back to him, putting on Riley's fake glasses and walking away. He saluted them at the fork, excusing himself to the mill. He had work. 

***

Winnifred tapped her fingers on her bag in front of her, trying to decide what to do. The doctors shooed her out of Margaret's room, claiming that it is dangerous for her cousin to have so much outside interaction, but Winnifred suspected it was just because she got on her nerves. Sighing, Winnifred heaved the bag over her shoulder and walked down to the receptionist desk. 

"Excuse me?" 

Winnifred finally learned that the blonde girl was named Clarke. The understanding was mutual; Winnifred became a too common of a face at the hospital. 

"Yes, Miss Lewly?" Evangeline finished her last word and looked up. Winnifred thought for a second how to lay out her question, before deciding to just say how it is.

"Do you know where to find intern Johnathan Crane?" 

Evangeline's eyes widened as she uncomfortably shifted in her seat. "Why do you need him?" 

Winnifred, whose right hand was resting on the counter-top, raised her fingers before lightly slapping them back on the table. 

"Well, I um, have to discuss something with him concerning," Winnifred quickly combined medical terms,"pneumonia accompanying the infection of the medulla, which can cause the fifth stage of schizophrenia." There were only three stages, but Winnifred decided that it would be best to heighten the stakes. 

"Fifth?" Clarke gasped. "Not even the fourth?" Great, she's an expert in psychology just as much as I am. 

"Yes,” Winnifred seriously nodded her head. "Dr. Collins sent me to the intern. Do you know where he is?" 

"Wait, I...." Clarke rumbled through stacks of papers neatly scattered around her desk. 

"Office 65, on the third floor." 

"With the seventh window." 

"What?" 

"Never mind. Thank you." 

Winnifred didn't bother taking the staircase, so she called down the elevator. After verifying that it won't come on the first floor and that she is somehow the only one waiting for it, Winnifred went on to search for the staircase. Not long, she made her way on the the third floor. It was relatively abandoned. Winnifred glanced to the right. There was a long line of wards, the mumbling of its patients echoing in the walls. Winnifred shivered and quickly walked to the left. 

The office looked exactly like the doors next to it. Winnifred hesitated in front of it, then scolded herself for being uncertain in front of her friend, so she knocked and looked in. 

"Johnathan?" 

The room was empty. Winnifred clicked her tongue in irritation. Her eyes traveled around the office, and she slowly walked in. The cabinet was done in old style, wooden and small, closets with papers and books messily stacked around, and a window covered in shades. Winnifred chuckled and in one big stroke appeared in front of it. In a second, the room crackled in the sound of screeching blinds pulling up and inundated with flowing sunlight. Winnifred covered her eyes with a smile and turned around, taking the room in anew. Her eyes fell on the two desks opposite of each other she didn't notice the first time. The desk on the left looked exactly like Winnifred's at work. The desk on the right was a bit more organized. Winnifred slowly walked around it. The tips of her fingers slightly lifted up the edge of the paper loosely lying on the surface. Winnifred lifted her brows as her eyes darted back and forth along the text. The door suddenly flung open, and Winnifred glanced up, the paper immediately slightly falling down as they lost their finger support. However, the man that entered wasn't Johnathan. In fact, he looked much more benign compared to Johnathan. 

"Uh...you are?" He uncertainly asked. Winnifred slightly smiled and walked out of the desk.

"I'm sorry to be here without invitation, I was just looking for Johnathan Crane. Isn't this his office?" 

"Well, yes, he shares it with me." The man put his folders down on the desk and turned to her. 

"My name is Richard, by the way." Winnifred grimaced inside by the fact that he didn't leave her an option of addressing him by his last name, but smiled on the outside. 

"I'm Winnifred. So will Johnathan come here soon?" 

Richard shrugged. "I doubt it. He's usually in the basement doing experiments for his thesis or something." 

"Really?" Winnifred was genuinely surprised. So that's where Johnathan conducted his experiments. "And where is that?" 

Richard didn't seem very happy to give her instructions. 

"It's right next to the last ward down the corridor." Winnifred didn't ask why basements were on the third floor, preferring to turn around and walk away. Maybe that's just how they referred to the room.

"Thank you. Richard, right?" 

"Yes, yes that's right." Richard grimly watched her close the door, then sat down at his desk with a sigh, wondering why he had so much failure in women. Winnifred couldn't keep off that feeling that someone was watching her while she walked down the wards. The mutterings that surrounded her at every corner kept on getting louder. Winnifred quickened her pace to a rugged half walk, half jog. At the end of the hallway, there was a short staircase leading down to a door, explaining why it was called a basement. The thought of how it could possibly look architecturally from the outside visited Winnifred just once. The staircase was poorly lit, and Winnifred slowly made her way down. The metal door grimly waited for her to knock. Her fist hovered before it, until it finally lowered up and down in quick knocking movements. 

"Johnathan?" 

No one answered her. Winnifred patiently waited, before knocking again.

"Johnathan." 

Silence. Winnifred tried the knob, which was surprisingly unlocked. She stepped into the room. It looked like a large prison cell mixed with a modern chemistry lab, with poor lighting and a closet full of papers, equipment, and medicine. Johnathan was sitting back to her behind the table filled with numerous equipment and toxins. Winnifred wasn't sure if he heard her, but before she could take a step, Johnathan slightly tilted his head her way. 

"Winnifred, is that you?" His voice was extremely strained. Winnifred froze.

"Yes,” she quietly answered. He turned his head back away from her. Winnifred sighed and closed the door behind her. She started walking towards him, but before she could get too close, he put out his hand in warning. 

"Be careful, though, there's a crow sitting on the desk." 

"Where?" Winnifred immediately stopped and looked around the room. Johnathan nodded. 

"There." Winnifred followed his movement to the corner of the desk. No one was there. Winnifred shifted her gaze back on Johnathan. 

"On the corner of the desk?" She asked in a flat voice. 

"Yes," Johnathan tiredly sighed. Winnifred thought for a moment, then calmly walked up and slammed her hand as hard as she could on the corner. Johnathan jerked. 

"Is it gone now?" She inquired, eyebrows slightly raised. Johnathan looked at the corner for a moment, then sighed and took off his glasses, observing the wall in front of him. Winnifred put her hand on his shoulder. 

"Johnny, what's wrong?" She quietly asked, trying to look into his eye. Johnathan continued staring at the wall. Nothing moved in his face. Winnifred patiently waited. Johnathan slightly opened his mouth to say something, but a sigh escaped instead. 

"Freddie, do you know what I'm researching?" He finally asked. 

"I do. Fear, isn't it?" 

His brows slightly came together. 

"How do you know?" 

"I've seen your papers," Winnifred sighed. "But it's still very easy to figure it out," she kneeled down to his face. "You're obsessed with fear." She tried to smile, but couldn't make herself lie. Johnathan slightly closed his eyes. 

"Was this one of your experiments?" Winnifred quietly inquired. Johnathan sighed. 

"Subconscious fear. Nothing happens to you, but you have the constant feeling that it's there. An effective tool for unwinding the mind over a long period of time." 

Winnifred took the statement in. It's meaning crashed at her in slow motion. She quickly took him by both of his shoulders, looking into his eyes. 

"Did you just hear yourself?" 

Johnathan sighed in irritation, rubbing his face with his hand.

"Freddie, I am not going mad," He forcefully said, lifting three fingers away from his face. 

"No, but you said that whatever you're doing is an effective tool for unwinding the mind over a long period of time," Winnifred slashed, trying to keep her voice from rolling away. 

"And I assume you're doing these experiments on yourself?" 

"Freddie," Johnathan wearily explained. "I'm a scientist." 

"So?" 

"Doesn't that tell you anything? I work for science, not for anything else." 

"And if the cheese slides off the cracker?" 

"As long as it doesn't interfere with my work, I don't care." 

"But Johnathan," Winnifred whispered in hurt, trying not to believe in what he was saying. 

"I care." Johnathan finally looked her into the eyes. Winnifred was appalled by how tired he looked. His face was extremely pale and sunken, the only thing that shone out was his blue eyes, shimmering in some sort of feverish fire. 

"Freddie, don't take it close to heart," Johnathan softened, trying to comfort her, but Winnifred saw how he was shaking, still under the influence on the chemical. 

"Nothing's going to happen." 

"You speak as if you don't understand," Winnifred bitterly turned away. 

"You're not telling the truth. I'm sure you perfectly know the consequences." 

Johnathan leaned back on the chair. His eyes fixed on some point on the air which Winnifred couldn't catch. 

"I wasn't left a choice," he quietly answered. 

"Then shall I give it to you?" Winnifred searched his face, trying to catch his attention. Johnathan slowly turned to her. His lips were curled into a sarcastic, distorted grin. 

"A choice between continuing my work or stopping our friendship? You know me, Freddie, well enough to understand that I won't do that." 

"You will," Winnifred coldly answered. "If you don't stop whatever you're doing right now." Johnathan bitterly smirked. Winnifred tightened her fingers on his shoulders. 

"Johnathan, listen to me. I have no intentions of losing my friend to some sort of misplaced devotion to work." 

"Freddie..." Johnathan shook his head, but Winnifred didn't let him continue. 

"Johnny....don't. I'm not watching how you lose your mind every day just because of some stupid degree." 

"Winnifred, understand." Johnathan finally lost his patience, color returning to his face. 

"This is what I do. I've been working over this since I was a child, I can't just go and throw it all away." 

"But you cannot lose yourself while doing this," Winnifred insisted. "Johnny, I know I can't force you to stop this, but can't you limit your experiments to once a week or something? I'm sure you have enough material for a decent dissertation." 

Johnathan fell silent. Winnifred watched in worry as his face slowly loses its sharpness, reluctantly yielding to her request. 

"Just let me finish my final experiment," he finally said. 

"Which is?" 

"I'm not sure if you would like to know." 

"Johnathan. I want to know." Johnathan sighed.

"It's how fear triggers one's duality or breakdown. Don't worry, I'll be taking a small dose." 

Winnifred pressed her lips together, but knew she couldn't say no to his request. 

"Fine." She looked away, not wanting to show her defeat. "Just come to me once you finish." 

"I'll try." 

Winnifred sadly looked back at him, stroking his shoulders with her hand. The clock hesitantly ticked in the growing silence.

"When I walked in, did you think I was your grandmother?" Winnifred finally asked. Johnathan didn't answer. Winnifred sighed and kissed him on the head, pressing hers against his. 

"Promise me that you won't overwork yourself." Johnathan again didn't answer. Winnifred sighed, but understood that she did all she could and continuing would be useless. She straightened out and silently walked towards the exit. Before she left, Winnifred took one final glance back and quietly closed the door behind her. Johnathan continued sitting there, but he heard how her footsteps echo in the hollow hallway. Gradually, these footsteps became quieter and quieter, until finally everything descended into silence. A second passed. Johnathan transferred his eyes on the small glass tube partly full with white powder lying on the table. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and angrily overturned the desk. The glass loudly shattered against the hard floor, filling the room with a shrieking clang. Johnathan heavily breathed as the shattered glass echoed in his ears. His eyes slowly took in what he had done in the moment of impulse. Understanding came dawning on him, and he fell back into his chair, dropping his head into his hands. 

***

The mill looked extremely lonely when Heath turned around from the door, closed by his visitors. Sighing, he walked over to his desk and flopped down on the chair. It was aching at the back of his head, and his brain was tired from all the complex maneuvers he used for the drug dealers. Heath blankly scanned the bare, wooden desk surface. Instinctively, he pulled over a piece of paper and began vigorously writing. 

_Most adorable Freddie,_

_Don't worry, I'll always have a superlative or two for you. Hey, that even rhymes, you know, two and you. Never mind._

_I think I can tell you about my job. It's not hard. I'm just a middleman between the drugs and drug dealers, or mob heads, whoever they are. I don't really want to know, as long as they pay. And trust me they pay a lot, if you manipulate them correctly. Damn it, I hate this job._

_I heard about Margaret. Do not worry, even if those so called doctors don't know what they're doing, Johnathan does. I know, he's not technically a pediatrician, but everyone starts from the same bus._

_Good night,_

_Heath_

Heath placed down the pencil and regarded his messy work. He carefully placed it on his letter shelf, before sitting back down. His finger lazily kicked the pencil away. The pencil rolled away a little, then slid back down for another kick. Thunder sounded in the distance, then all of a sudden it began raining. Heath absently listened to the rain patter on the attic boards. He would have to place pots around the mill again, as well as cleaning the attic in the morning. Oh well. 

"Heath?" 

Heath immediately wheeled around in his chair. Winnifred was standing in the doorway, absolutely soaked from head to foot.

"Freddie?" Heath lifted his eyebrows in immense surprise. Winnifred smirked. 

"I was walking from the hospital when it started showering. And...well," she flapped her hands on her sides, helplessly glancing on her pitiful appearance. 

"Got it," Heath laughed and, quickly looking around, tossed her a random towel that luckily happened to lie on a stool. "Here, dry yourself. I'll see what I can get you to wear." Winnifred nimbly caught the towel and began brutally rubbing her hair. Leaving her muddy shoes near the door, she stepped with her bare feet on the creaky boards. Heath appeared the moment later, bare chested. His shirt was in his hands. 

"Considering that you're pretty short, this should be perfect," he chuckled. Winnifred shot him a grumpy, joking glance and unbuttoned her wet blouse. 

"Turn around," she ordered. Heath obediently whirled around on his toes, whistling a happy tune. Winnifred quickly took of her blouse, brassiere and skirt, pulling on Heath's shirt instead. It flopped on her like a dress, reaching up to her ankles. 

"You can turn around," Winnifred patted Heath's muscular forearm and went scavenging for a place where she could hang her clothes. Heath meanwhile took out a deck of cards and, sitting on the floor, began shuffling them. 

"Poker?"

"Sure," Winnifred appeared again and sat down on the floor with him. Heath smirked and began dealing. 

"How's Margaret?" He asked after a while. Winnifred licked her lips, frowning at her cards. 

"Getting better. What day is today?" 

"Thursday," Heath leaned over the paper and neatly placed two x's in Winnifred's column. Her eyes crossly followed him.

"They'll discharge her on Saturday." 

"So I have one more day of seeing you walk around like a grouch?" Heath specified. Winnifred smiled and merrily glanced at him. He winked in return. The next round was in silence, but not for long. 

"How's Johnathan?" Heath inquired, taking his two tricks like he thought. Winnifred suddenly frowned and lowered her cards, unwittingly revealing them. Heath decided not to look at them, focusing instead of Winnifred's face. 

"Heath," Winnifred seriously started, thinking over her words. "Did you know about Johnny's experiments?" 

Heath leaned back, trying to guess what would be Freddie's reaction to his answer. He decided to tell the truth. 

"I did," he admitted. Winnifred turned to him in indignation. 

"And you didn't stop him?" Heath quickly lowered his eyes back on his cards. The jack of hearts gave him a sugary smile. Heath glanced back up at Winnifred. 

"No."

"Why not?"

Heath loudly exhaled. 

"Johnathan likes it. I didn't feel the need to take him away from his toy." 

"But what if he goes..." Winnifred didn't finish the sentence. 

"Nuts?" Heath helped her. "I don't think so. Johnny's much stronger mentally than you think. Besides, he has his own head on his shoulders, he's perfectly aware of what he's doing." 

Winnifred twisted her lips in displeasure, but it seemed that she was too tired to continue. Heath decided to switch the topic. 

"So are you coming on Saturday?" 

"Of course," Winnifred frowned. "Why wouldn't I?" Heath shrugged, looking back on his cards. 

"Well, I thought...." 

"I'm coming, okay?" Winnifred harshly answered and threw down her cards, standing up and walking up to the crying window. Heath followed her with his eyes. His gaze transferred on the scattered cards, then back at her. He slowly got up and walked up behind her. 

"Freddie, what's wrong?" Heath quietly asked. Winnifred looked down. Heath couldn't see her face, but her vague reflection in the window revealed her ashamed, tired face. 

"I-I'm sorry," Winnifred sighed. "I've been feeling so horrible these past few weeks, it's really getting on me..." 

"Freddie," Heath softly took her by the shoulder. Winnifred turned back to him. She wearily glanced at him. 

"It's not you fault, Heath, truly. But first it was Browning, then Margaret, now Johnathan...." Winnifred suddenly fell silent. Heath watched how horror slowly spreads over her face. The same cold horror spread inside him. 

"Freddie," he slowly started. Winnifred refused to meet his eye. "Is that the Browning I am thinking of?" Winnifred was quiet.

"Freddie?" Winnifred glanced at him. 

"Yes," she defiantly admitted. "I met him in Maine." Heath took his hand away from her shoulder and turned around, hands in pockets. He wasn't sure what to feel, he honestly didn't feel anything. He just understood that he needed to be alone. 

"The rain is less dense," Heath said in a flat voice. "It's the best you'll get right now." Winnifred understood that she was being sent away. Heath heard her sigh behind him, then go somewhere into the depths of the mill. In about three minutes, she returned, dressed in her ordinary clothes. They were still very damp. Winnifred quietly placed his shirt on the back of the chair and nimbly slipped between Heath and the doorway. His brown eyes watched her quickly run under the rain. Once she disappeared, he snatched a piece of paper, the one they've been keeping track of points for poker and, turning it around, began writing all over it: 

_Dear Freddie,_

_I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_

_I'm sorry I'm sorry I_

_Please I'ms orry I'm sorry Im sorrry I,m sorry I'm sorry_

_Freddie please_

_sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry_

_PLEASE WINNIFRED_

***

Johnathan flipped the page over, looking at what he had written on the backside. The sound of the TV dumbly rumbled around the room. Heath was sitting on the couch, watching the screen with blank eyes. It was some sort of natural wildlife show. Heath blinked, trying to concentrate. The green pine trees suddenly switched to a sugary woman applying Dove. Heath sighed and switched the television off. The girl froze and disappeared. Heath stood up and walked over to the window. The day was still fresh from yesterday's rain, but the sun was brightly shining in the sky. 

"Freddie caught you on your experiments," Heath noticed rather matter-of-factly. Johnathan continued writing.

"Yes, I know. I kind of gave myself away." 

Heath snorted and walked back to the couch. "So what did she do?" He asked, slouching down on the couch. Johnathan straightened out in his chair, looking out the window. 

"She...she tried to make me stop them." 

"And did it work?" Heath raised his eyebrows. 

"A little." Heath shook his head in amusement, before looking back at the intern. 

"Wow. I'm impressed." 

"I'm impressed myself," Johnathan kneeled back down over his papers. Heath quietly laughed. Johnathan continued his writing. Heath tossed the remote controller from the TV up and down in the air.

"You're invited by the way," Heath commented, catching the rotating remote. Johnathan frowned, creasing his forehead. 

"Where exactly?" 

"Our party. It's tomorrow, at Grouch's estate. So are you coming?" 

"I'll come around one," Johnathan placed the paper aside. He glanced behind himself on Heath. 

"Once you'll need someone to chaperone you back home." 

"Always so sensible," Heath grinned. "No worries, we'll save a bottle or two." 

Johnathan shook his head and turned back to his work. 


	12. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A light kind of chapter before stuff starts plummeting.....As always, thanks for reading and don't forget to review!

Billy took a large gulp of champagne from his narrow glass and walked out into the garden. 

"Evening, Charlottie," he threw on the way to the passing girl. People were slipping back and forth between the house and the garden. Billy walked around a kissing couple right in the middle of the stone pathway and approached the gates. Heath was standing next to them, thoughtfully smoking a cigarette with one hand in the pocket. Billy leaned over the hinges, craftily studying his friend.

"Waiting for the," Billy cleared his throat,"mademoiselle?" Heath didn't even look at him. Billy chuckled, shaking his head. His hand heavily landed on Heath's shoulder. 

"C'mon, man, she'll be alright. Let's go." Heath reluctantly followed him inside. The party was at full swing, loud music blasting through the walls. There were definitely more people than the poor building could handle. Heath squeezed in through the dancing pairs, until his stomach finally hit the table. Breathing out in pain, Heath stared down at the white, plastic tablecloth and its glasses of champagne, some unknown appetizers, and fruits. Heath hesitantly eyed the suspicious refreshments, and instead grabbed a glass of champagne. Billy miraculously appeared behind his shoulder. 

"Well? Feeling better?" 

"Sorry, man, but I'm not staying here." Heath shoved the glass into Billy's chest and made his way out into the garden. Crouch's garden was considered its best in Gotham Outskirts, being the largest and most intricate the poor villagers have seen. It was of its sort a labyrinth, decorated with multiple pavilions, benches, and an endless amount of tall trees and flowers. Heath chose a quiet spot in front of a small pavilion and sat down on the cold bench, resting his chin on his fists. He felt terrible. Not able to hold it longer, he swung his jacket over his shoulder and started his way towards the gates. 

"You wouldn't tell me to come here just to leave yourself, right?" 

Heath whirled around. Winnifred was standing behind him in a noir, silky shirt with straps, a Scottish plaited skirt and black tights. She was smiling. Heath exhaled in relief and quickly approached her.

"Freddie, you made it!" 

"Of course I made it. I said I would." Winnifred smiled. Her eyes scanned over to his long sleeved shirt. 

"God, Heath, you even ironed it!" Her eyes trickled back on him. Heath grinned, but quickly became serious, then looking back behind him, took Winnifred by both of her shoulders and moved her aside. 

"Listen, Freddie, I don't care about Jack Browning and whatever he was up to in Maine," he quietly began. "I just want to see your gorgeous smile more often." 

"Oh Heath," Winnifred shook her head, deeply touched by his words. "You worry too much about everything. I'll be fine." Heath saw how relief flooded her face and sensed how the heavy boulder rolls off his conscience. He gallantly offered his arm. 

"If you would like, miss, I would escort you to the palace." 

Winnifred laughingly slapped him on the arm before taking it. "If you will, sir." 

Heath grinned from ear to ear and led her inside. Winnifred's first reaction was to grimace and squeeze her ears shut. 

"I thought this was a party, not a live interpretation of Dante's inferno!" 

Heath leaned down up to her ear so she could hear him. 

"Do you want to know a perfect cure to it?" 

Winnifred suspiciously glanced at him. 

"And?" 

"You live it." Heath grabbed her arm and pulled her right into the center of the dancing pairs. They whirled in a chaotic dance, making a full circle around the room. Winnifred hardly paid attention to the dancing; she was bending down onto Heath's arms from the unstoppable laughter, which was constantly beaten from her chest by the unthinkably fast tempo and the fact that her feet were literally being chipped by the floor as she skidded on it. Heath seemed to be untroubled by either of the conditions, grinning as he led the dance. The loud drum bang indicated the end, and Heath abruptly stopped, holding Winnifred tightly from flying on the surrounding tables. Winnifred took the chance to topple on him, dying from laughter. Heath laughed along, glancing down at her. 

"Oh Heath!" Winnifred gulped air, trying to make herself stop. Heath smirked and in the meantime picked up a glass of champagne from the plate that the waiter was passing around. 

"Champagne?" Winnifred shook her head. Heath quickly drank it and shoved the empty glass into another waiter's hands. 

"C'mon, the next dance is starting." 

"No, Heath, please," Winnifred pleaded, but the calm music persuaded her to follow Heath's arm. Placing one hand on his shoulder, the other one clasping in his hand, Winnifred moved back and forth in the rhythm. Heath quietly hummed the melody into her ear. Winnifred glanced at him in slight surprise, and he grinned in response. Winnifred looked away again, listening to the music, unwittingly mouthing the lyrics. Heath's eyes traveled upwards on the non-dancing crowd. Billy raised his glass upwards in his honor. Heath quietly smirked and looked back at Winnifred. Her eyes smiled back on him. 

"You look lovely," he complimented her. A rosy color filled Winnifred's cheeks. 

"Thank you. By the way, whose idea was it?" 

"What, all of this?" 

"Yeah." 

"Mine, of course. And Billy's. You know, the more fun the better." 

Winnifred chuckled, shaking her head. 

"You guys..." 

Sammy suddenly appeared at their side. 

"May I?" He broadly grinned, offering his hand. Winnifred jokingly glanced at Heath and allowed Sammy to take her by the waist. Charlotte meanwhile slipped out and took Winnifred's place in front of Heath. Heath wasn't very eager about the idea, but anyways went along. The tune changed anyway, going somewhere between pop and rock. 

"So how's work going?" He asked, twirling Charlotte around. She somehow managed to shrug while doing so. 

"Okay. A bit boring." 

"Oh god," Heath jokingly frowned, lifting her up. "I wonder what happens with Freddie during the work day." 

"Don't," Charlotte advised,"You can't imagine how happy she is at the end of the day." Heath chuckled and bowed. 

"So am I. It was a pleasure to dance with you, Miss Lottie." 

"You're not going to finish the dance?" Charlotte asked in surprise.

"Nope." Heath was already making his way to the tables. He knew Charlotte wouldn't be upset; she knew him long enough to learn that. Indeed, Charlotte just shrugged and quickly hitched up another dancer. Heath chose a more or less people-free corner and sat down, watching the pairs. Winnifred was dancing away with Sammy, laughing at something he had said. Heath grinned and took a sip of his champagne. The dance soon ended, and Winnifred bowed to Sammy. Stepping aside, she searched for Heath with her eyes, the fun in her face gradually changing into worry. Heath quickly raised his hand. Winnifred still didn't see him. He stood up. She looked in the other direction. Winnifred saw him only when he was waving both of his hands around and calling her name. Apologetically smiling, she scurried to him through the people and finally plopped into the chair next to him. 

"Sorry, didn't see you the first time." 

Heath sarcastically snorted. A waitress, some girl from parallel classes, bent over them. Heath didn't hear what she was saying, but assumed it was about the food. 

"No thank you," he loudly said into the waitress's face, adding the shaking of the head as a reinforcement. The waitress seemed to understand him as she nodded and walked away. Heath relaxed into his chair, putting his arm on the back of Winnifred's. She was curiously watching the dancing pairs. Heath leaned down to her. 

"I told you it'll be great," he slyly said. Winnifred snorted, but didn't answer. Heath meanwhile cupped his hands and quickly lit up a cigarette inside. Billy, not bothering to maneuver among people, shoved his way forward with his shoulders towards their table. 

"Miss Lewly," The thin lips slowly stretched into a sly grin. "Came back after all." 

"Mister Hardy, I did indeed," Winnifred smirked in the same tone. Heath leaned back on the wall, stretching his feet out. 

"Resting?" Billy's eyes scoured the empty table. "With no drinks?" 

"Billy, you know I try to avoid alcohol," Winnifred wired her face. He lifted his eyebrows. 

"Avoid alcohol? Who sneaked three Heineken bottles from Samuel on the market?" 

Heath quietly chuckled. 

"You don't get drunk from beer," Winnifred defiantly raised her chin. "I doubt you store it in here." 

"Well, we'll check out," Billy glanced behind his back. He snapped his fingers.

"Garçon!" The waiter passed by without even looking at them. Winnifred snorted into her fist. Heath bit into his cigarette to keep off that smile that threatened to spread across his face. Billy swore. 

"Fuck this town and its illiterate inhabitants. Boy, I said!" The waiter glanced back behind his shoulder. Billy vigorously summoned him with his hand. The waiter calmly walked over. 

"Yes, sir?" 

Billy picked up three glasses that were on his tray. 

"Thank you," he forcefully said and turned back to the table. 

"For you," Billy gallantly handed the glass over to Winnifred. She reluctantly took it. 

"For you," Heath heavily sighed the smoke out into his glass. It puffed up into his face. Billy held the final glass in front of him. 

"For me," he concluded. "For us all." The three curtly clinked their glasses together before drinking it. Winnifred drank only half of it, squeezing her eyes shut from the bitterness. Heath gulped it down. The corner of his lips slightly twitched. Billy's face didn't change as the bitter vodka went down his throat at once. 

Winnifred looked up at him with teary eyes.

"How..." She didn't finish her sentence, looking around to find something edible. Billy shrugged. His eyes twinkled. 

"Practice, my dear, practice." Winnifred death glared him, before sighing and reclining back into her chair. The band started a new song, more lively and energetic. Heath shoved the chair aside and almost got up, when Billy grabbed a bottle from some waitress and quickly splashed down some vodka. 

"For our friendship." 

"Billy, but we're not even friends-friends. I have no idea when your birthday is!” Winnifred helplessly noticed, sharing a helpless look with Heath. If Billy started drinking, it assumed no stopping and getting drunk in less than ten minutes. Her gaze accidentally fell into the crowd. Her pupils froze.

"Buddies, at least?" Billy meanwhile chuckled, shaking his head as he poured the vodka into his glass. "For us being buddies then." 

Heath rolled his eyes and firmly placed the glass on the table. "Billy, we are not getting ourselves drunk today," he forcefully raised his eyebrows. That one transferred his eyes on Winnifred. 

"And you Miss Lewly? Not today too?" With great difficulty, Winnifred shifted her eyes from somewhere behind Billy's left shoulder back to his face. She furrowed her brows, trying to concentrate. 

"What? No, of course, not." Winnifred harshly answered and drank her portion in one gulp. Then, she rudely took Heath's full glass and drank it too. 

"Freddie," Heath exhaled in half whisper of astonishment. Billy looked just as appalled as he was. Winnifred shook her curls and smiled. Her eyes wandered around the room. 

"C'mon, the band is playing a new song," she pulled Heath by the arm right into the midst of the crowd. Heath tried to catch her gaze, but she kept on dancing. The band started playing some old, extremely familiar song that Heath knew, but never cared to find out the name. 

"Freddie?" He tried, accidentally stepping on the foot of the girl dancing behind him. 

"Yeah?" Winnifred glanced up at him. 

"I thought you don't drink." 

"I do." 

"In large amounts, I mean." 

"Heath," Winnifred shook her head with a grin, moving her body to the rhythm. "Since when do you care?" 

Her pliable, miniature figure smoothly glided to the music. The people dancing near unwittingly turned around to look at her. The lightning unevenly fell on profile, chiseling her cheekbones and eyes. Heath relaxed and held her arm high. Winnifred nimbly twirled, appearing right before Heath. She lightly placed her hand on his shoulder as they tilted back and forth on one place.

"What are they singing?" Heath asked in curiosity. 

"How do I know?" Her clear, blue eyes shimmered. "It's French." Heath smirked and pressed her against him. Winnifred hugged him on the broad shoulders. Her eyes spotted a waitress with a tray passing by. Winnifred quickly waved her over and received the drink. Thanking the girl with a nod, she slightly backed away and gulped down the drink. Heath decided not to say anything. Breathing out, Winnifred hugged him again. Her fingers randomly played with the small glass in her hand. The light blinked on it. Winnifred's eyes narrowed. Her fingers tilted the glass at an angle. The light shone brighter, caught within the crystal. Winnifred directed it on the opposite wall. Small, light bunnies hopped on it. Winnifred slowly grinned. The bunnies hopped across the walls, down at the tables, scattered around the glasses on the waiter's tray, disappeared for a moment, then returned back on the opposite wall. Winnifred couldn't hold back a giggle. Heath heard her and pulled her away with a laugh. 

"You little drunkard!" He whirled her around and tilted her back down. Because he was so tall and she, well, one of the shortest in the town, Winnifred's head was about millimetres from the floor. Winnifred slanted her eyes to the side. Oh dear. She could practically see the miraculously not smashed ant carefully crawling on the linoleum. Too close. Her eyes darted back on Heath, grinning into her face. 

"Heath." 

"Sorry," Heath pulled her back up. He wasn't able to hold back a laugh however. 

"Lilliputian." 

"How rude," Winnifred swatted him on the stomach. Her eyes mischievously narrowed. 

"All right. It's on you, Gulliver." She suddenly wheeled around and tweaked in between Jacob and Riley. Heath, laughing under his breath, set out after her. But when he made his way through this classmates, Winnifred was already gone, lost somewhere in the enormous building. Heath blinked, trying to process the swirl of people in front of him and the lack of the little brunette. His brown eyes shadowed. Heath sighed, then began making his way though the crowd. 

***

Winnifred laughed, splashing half of the vodka on her skirt. Her head felt as if it was stuck between two bricks which were mercilessly pressing on it, and her vestibular apparatus had clicked off a long time ago. Claire, Jane, and the other girl from the math department with a long name Winnifred just couldn't remember, and she herself were telling absolutely idiotic, inappropriate jokes for an hour and a half in...the dining room? Guest room? After a while, all the rooms became the same, also a result of great intoxication. And yet, Winnifred was having a time of her life. Never mind the next morning. 

"And after he let go of my neck, we drove in his Lamborghini for all night long," Jane triumphantly finished, smashing her wine, well vodka in this case, glass on the table. The leg of the glass slightly cracked. Winnifred snorted into her glass, sending the vodka onto her nose. 

"Hmm," Claire doubtfully smirked, pushing the round eyeglasses back on her long nose. 

"Is that all? Not impressive." The other girl snored in her chair. 

"What do you have?" Jane defiantly parried, swinging her glass. The insides splattered on the walls. 

"Sex in the city?" 

"I didn't have anything," Claire shrugged. Her bug eyes traveled over on Winnifred. 

"I'm sure Winnie has something." 

"I....do?" Winnifred frowned, trying to think of something. A big, black blotch stared at her from her mind. 

"Yeah," Jane's eyes seemed to widen in circumference. "What's up with you and that cute boy from your class?" 

"Who?" Winnifred didn't understand the question. Jane and Claire shared a knowing, a bit too conspiratorial, glance. 

"You know, the blonde one," Jane slyly said. Winnifred quickly scrolled through her class. 

"You mean....Heath?" Winnifred finally asked, deciding that Sammy is more of a red hair than a blonde.

"Oh, I don't know his name," Jane airily waved off. "I just know that he always hangs out with you." Winnifred simply stared at them for a moment, then burst in helpless, unstoppable laughter. 

"You..you think that I have...anything....with Heath?!" Winnifred stared at the girls with teary eyes, leaning down on the table, it was just so hilarious. 

"Yeah, of course," Jane repeated in confusion, watching how Winnifred presses down on her ribs to stop the hurting, continuing to laugh in an uncontrollable laugh. 

"Everyone thinks that," Claire slowly added. Winnifred, who took a sip of vodka at that moment to stop the hiccuping, spat the contents back out, breaking down in giggles. 

"Oh my lord, you guys are so stupid," Winnifred leaned back on her chair, pouring what was left in the bottle into her glass. 

"Wait, so you're not a couple?" Jane quickly asked. Winnifred sarcastically smirked at the intense worry sketched on her face. 

"No." 

"Not even dating?"

"Nope." 

"And you never had sex with him?" 

"Damn it, Jane, of course not," Winnifred slightly raised her eyebrows in amusement, unable to hold back the smile off her face and the thought "what a horrible idea" from her brain. 

"Strange," Claire noted. "You seem very into him." 

"We're friends," Winnifred emphasized with her hands, one still clutching the neck of the bottle. 

"Friends. Okay? Now switch the topic before this," Winnifred menacingly shook the empty bottle,"flies into your face." Jane twisted her lips in unsatisfactory smirk and placed her upper lip on the edge of the glass. Winnifred waited for anyone to say anything, but neither girls did. So she decided to go. 

"Alright, I'm going," Winnifred said, standing up. Bad idea. Her world almost toppled off her horizon line. Claire waved her hand. Jane silently lit a cigarette. Winnifred tumbled side to side, trying not to knock into furniture and stay close to the walls. At one point, she almost trip over her own heels, hitting head first some sort of bookshelf.

"Fuck it, stupid bookshelf," Winnifred complained to herself, rubbing her hurt forehead and glancing up on the object of her displeasure. It was ten times larger than her, so Winnifred decided a swearing would be enough. No need to kick it or punch it in the side. Winnifred made her way out into the courtyard. On her first step, she ran right into a kissing couple. Apologizing and making her away around the angry guy, careful not to notice that Valentine's Day already passed, Winnifred turned around face first into a bush. Apologizing to the bush as well, she strolled over in the labyrinth. Winnifred found the bench on a total accident. She literally walked right into it. If she didn't break her legs over that stone giant, she may have never found it. Lowering down, Winnifred kneeled her head all the knees, clutching it with her hands. Never will I ever drink alcohol again, Winnifred repeated over and over. Surprisingly, it kind of helped. The pain in the back of her head started to somewhat fade away. Winnifred squeezed her head tighter. Never will I ever drink alcohol, never will I ever drink alcohol, never will I ever drink alcohol, never will I.... 

"Freddie?" Winnifred jolted back up. Heath was staring at her from the corner. 

"Heath," Winnifred smiled and placed her hand on her shoulder, her brown hair messing up under her palm. 

"You know what would be my tombstone engraving? _I TOLD you I was sick._ Pretty good, huh?" 

"Freddie," Heath shook his head, walking up and sitting next to her. 

"How many glasses did you drink exactly?" 

"A thousand," Winnifred leaned on his shoulder. "Maybe more. I lost count at fifty six." 

Heath chortled and hugged her by the shoulders. 

"I see. Well, tomorrow you'll remember for sure." 

"Oh joy," Winnifred mumbled without enthusiasm. Her eyelids bonked down on their own. Winnifred quietly yawned, just like a little kitten. 

"I don't think I can make it back home," she said after a while. 

"That's why I called Johnathan," Heath explained, as if to a little kid. Winnifred narrowed her eyes and looked up at him. He winked back. 

"Ain't I'm smart?" 

Winnifred snorted and closed her eyes again. Yeah, sure, genius. 

***

Johnathan approached Crouch's estate. He has never been here, but it wasn't hard to find; The house was booming over the entire town. Johnathan, tossing his apartment keys up and down in his hand, walked through the gates. His blue eyes thoughtfully scanned the large building and its even larger garden. He wondered how he would ever find Heath and Freddie in this maze. Some guy with a tattoo of an ace on his inner forearm passed Johnathan. He gave off a strong smell of alcohol, but surprisingly stood quite firm on his two legs. Johnathan decided to use the moment.

"Excuse me, do you know where Heath and Freddie are?" The guy slowly turned to Johnathan. His black eyes scanned up and down. 

"Are you their doctor friend by any chance?" The guy finally asked. Johnathan calmly waited, deciding not to answer. The guy nodded his head somewhere in a direction which Johnathan assumed to be north.

"They're in the garden over there." 

"Thank you," Johnathan shortly said, walking past the guy and into the labyrinth. Billy chuckled and walked back into the house. 

The guy was right. Heath and Freddie indeed were where he pointed to, except Winnifred was sleeping on Heath's shoulder, while Heath thoughtfully smoked it seemed a fiftieth cigarette for the day. 

"Good evening," Johnathan sat down next to him. "One, like promised. You understand what a party you made for the entire town?" 

"It's okay," Heath moved his left shoulder, unable to move his right. 

"Freddie got drunk. We would've left earlier, but she fell asleep." 

Johnathan nodded, thinking something to himself. 

"You can stay over at my house. It's close, and I have duty at three anyway." 

"Great," Heath carefully picked up Winnifred in his arms. "If you ever have trouble in anything, just know that I'm always here and I'll give you proper payback." 

"Taken into consideration," Johnathan slightly smiled. 


	13. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 4

Winnifred woke up from the headache. Her head felt as if it was on some sort of anvil, and some blacksmith was constantly pounding it, trying to mold it back into place. Winnifred grimaced and turned on her back. Strange. That's not how her ceiling looks like. Hers is grayish-blue, with a lamp stuck in the center. This one was more of a beige, with no lamp at all. Winnifred rolled her eyes around. Nothing in this room looked like hers actually. She would never put that kind of closet in the corner. And what happened to her happy dresses? They were replaced by dark toned suits and ties. Winnifred frowned and slowly sat up. She was certain she saw this place before, she just didn't feel like remembering. Winnifred looked to her side. A tiny note was on the night table next to the bed. Winnifred quickly leaned over and read the familiar, horrible handwriting. 

_Good morning. I hope you are feeling better than most people in your situation. You fell asleep yesterday, so we took you to my residence. I'm not sure if Heath will still be here by the time you awake, he said he has to go by six. The frying pan's in the right drawer above the sink, the eggs are in the fridge. Don't forget to check the time when your work starts._

_Yours truly, Crane_

Winnifred smirked and placed the note down. She quickly scrambled out of bed. Winnifred wasn't hungry, but she still had an hour before she had to go. Glancing around, Winnifred took in the elegant mess that was in the apartment. She knew that Johnathan was a relatively organized person at work whose influence unfortunately did not spread to his home. Winnifred quickly discovered the mop and bucket, and within half and hour, scrubbed all the floor clean. Nimbly dusting of the bookshelves, Winnifred hummed the song that was playing yesterday on the party. Her head ached like crazy, and her coordination wasn't the best, but work distracted her from the pain. Winnifred preferred not to think why she drank herself. She perfectly knew the consequences of such intoxication, so she expected the spasms for today and tomorrow to be especially violent. But they were worth it. 

By the time it was nine, Winnifred finished making Johnathan's bed. She had to hurry up if she wanted to change. Quickly putting on her heels, Winnifred jolted out the door and ran down the stairs, wondering how her tights, already tearing, would look like by the end of the day. 

***

The subway lights coarsely shuttered. Heath grimly breathed out the smoke. It roughly outlined in the dim atmosphere, before slowly disappearing. The sky was just as grey as back home. Large buildings painfully blinked in front of the large windows, before being replaced by the bleak tunnel walls. With a silent sigh, Heath turned his gaze away from the windows and looked to his side. His cigarette absently wavered next to his mouth, thumb slightly touching his chin. The cabin was almost empty. A bum was sitting at the very back, rocking back and forth to the movement of the metro. A shaggy hag crossly counted her cards a few seats in front of Heath. His brown eyes, curiosity slightly glimmering inside, passed them over. Heath thoughtfully sucked the smoke in, before releasing it in one large exhale. He turned back to the window. His eyes fell down at the window's edge. FUCK was written right below it it big, fat letters. Heath's lips slightly twitched in a faint smirk. A back and forth knock notified that the train has arrived. Heath stood up, dropping the cigarette down on the floor and squashing it with his boot. 

The metro was empty today as well. Few people quickly passed the platform. Heath's eyes unnoticeably passed on each of their faces. So cold and blank, not caring for the surrounding world. Some of the people were actually blank. This trip of the subway was so common in their lives, that it almost became like that one constant routine that you utterly hate yet cannot avoid. Others placed on this guise to mimic those others, those experienced ones. And some were just not fully awake at six o'clock in the morning. 

The air was crisp and bitter, smothered in displeasure and corruption. The cars raced across the road. Heath stopped at the edge, taking in the inexorable current for a moment. His eyebrows slowly rose up. The brown eyes traced the tall building right across the road. Heath sighed and scooped inside his pocket. Damn it, empty. There was a kiosk next to the metro entrance. Heath quickly walked up to the lonely structure. 

"Excuse me...." The old man in a checkered cap raised his eyes from the newspaper he was reading. Heath's corner vision quickly read the header: _Young Student Rachel Dawes Becomes District Attorney._

"Camel, please." The old man indifferently slid the pack on the counter. Heath tossed a twenty down on the counter and took the pack into his hands, quickly nodding in thanks. He roughly tore off the plastic wrap off the pack and maneuvered out a cigarette. The old man idly watched how the young man lites up one and inhales in the smoke. His grey brows suddenly twitched. His thin mouth slightly opened; the young man walked up right to the edge of the racing current, quickly glanced around before walking right across. He stopped right in the middle between two lanes, calmly waiting for cars to pass as he smoked the cigarette. Catching the first possible gap between the cars, the young man quickly walked across the road. He was forced to stop on the fourth lane. The old man watched in amusement as the young man nimbly ran across the final lane, onto the safe sidewalk, up the wide steps, before flinging the glass door open and disappearing into the building across. 

Heath smirked as he looked around the fancy corridor. Those mob dealers sure like comfort. A good reason to detest them. The more you like comfort and luxury, the less adaptable you are. Not that Heath was a nihilist or anything. He just thought it made sense. 

In the end of the long, red carpet corridor was a wooden, well polished desk. A glamorous women was vigorously writing something. Heath slightly kneeled forward. 

"Beg your pardon, miss, where's Mister Richie?" The woman lifted her head to pierce him with her crystal green eyes. 

"I'm afraid only the important people can see him." All the time while she talked, her eyes searched Heath up and down. Heath shrugged, tucking his hands into his pocket. His fingers immediately grasped the cigarette pack. 

"Well, I'm pretty important." Heath could see how the lady is holding her elegant lips from forming into a delicate frown. 

"What's your name, mister?" 

"Does every man who comes to Mister Richie names himself?" Heath doubted it and seemed to hit the vulnerable point. The lady was obviously fighting inside herself. 

"Why do you need him?" She finally asked, folding her clean, manicured nails on the desk. 

"Well, uh we have a tete-a-tete with him, if you know what kind of meetings are those among mob dealers." 

The lady burned red. Heath knew that his bold words about her employer's real substance only played his way. 

"Fine," the woman relented. "Walk down the hallway and out the back doors. He's in the first house you see." 

"Thank you very much." She blushed even more from his purposefully emphasized words, but Heath was already going down the hallway. His fingers randomly played with the pack inside as he wondered what the girl meant from the "first house he sees. The eloquent doors were already in front of him as he pushed them open. They swiftly swung into a slum, backward alley. The small, hut like compartments scrunched close together, garbage and waste layering on top of the dirt coated walls, asphalt, and steps. Heath ignored the stench and the overall presentation of the place he walked out into and quickly knocked the door of a little hut right across him. It opened with a creaky swoosh. Heath slightly ducked at the low door-frame. His eyes scanned the empty room. He was in a shack. A wooden, unstable table was in the center of it all, with one chair, as if for the convicted to sit upon. There was a window, but it was covered it heavy drapes, barely letting any light in. Heath sighed and dragged out the chair. Heavily falling down in it, he outstretched his legs on the table. His fingers clasped the cigarette pack, but took out the one next to it. Heath lightly tossed the emptied box on the edge of the table and began rapidly shuffling the cards. The door gently creaked behind him. Heath felt his upper back muscles slightly tense. 

"Ah, Mister Heath." Richie walked around the table and placed his shaggy portfolio on it. Heath didn't raise up his eyes from the cards. 

"You're punctual, as always." 

"I

try to, Mister Richie," Heath's eyes darted upwards, tracking Richie as he said. 

"It's not in my habits to miss the party." 

"I see." It was quiet for a moment. Heath quickly lit up a cigarette, shoving it through his lips with strange forcefulness. 

"How can I help you, Richie?" 

Richie smirked, beetle eyes obtaining a dangerous glow. 

"I want to hear more about your business, young sir," he amiably offered, sitting on the edge of the desk. Heath skeptically raised his eyebrows, shuffling the queen of hearts behind the two of diamonds. 

"I don't have one, Richie." 

"No?" Richie slid off the table and walked behind Heath's chair. Heath raised his eyes onto the draped window. It stared at him, blank obvious.

"Then why do my people double cross me?" The mafiosi's voice sounded genuinely curious. Just in case, the window's the escape route.

"Ask your people, Richie, I honestly don't have anything to do with their personal desires.

"Then why do you sell them your drugs?" Richie's tobacco flavored smell scalded the back of Heath's neck. An involuntary shiver sprinted across Heath's skin. He slightly pointed his toes on the table to shake off the feeling. 

"I am not an idiot to cut myself off on clients." 

"You are my client. I hired you." 

Heath chuckled and turned his neck to look at the mob dealer. 

"Think again, Mister Richie." Heath grinned and turned back to his cards. "As far as I know, I'm the only drug seller with fatal substances in this entire goddamn city." 

"Are you blackmailing me, Mister Heath?" Richie quietly asked behind his back. Heath's smile slowly died away. He sighed and tucked the cards in his pocket. 

"Just for the guarantee of not being shot in the head when I walk out of this slum," Heath tiredly replied, taking the cigarette out with his index and middle fingers. He watched the smoke cloud in front of him and slowly disperse as it traveled up to the ceiling. 

"I'm a funny man, Mister Richie -" 

"I noticed." 

"But there's no fun in serving the sick beast its favorite death pill." 

"Then why do you do it?" Richie spat. Heath closed his eyes in irritation. 

"Because without me, your hocus-pocus will collapse." Without opening his eyes, Heath took in another portion of smoke. 

"And because it gives me a good advance." 

"An advance for what?" Richie coldly raised his brows. "Do you seriously want to take advantage of this city?" 

"This city is the most pitiful thing I've encountered in my life," Heath grimaced in disdain, harshly thrusting his legs off the table and standing up. Abruptly wheeling around to Richie, he leaned back to the table, arms crossed, bringing a cigarette up to his lips. 

"Even though it has some distorted style. That, in my opinion, deserves, equal, distorted attention." 

"Want to rampage this city, Falcone's city, with your drugs?" Richie crookedly grinned. Heath broke out in a laugh, shaking his head as the faint smoke curled up from his what was left of his cigarette. Why does everything revolve around drugs? Can’t you use something more creative?

"I really don't think much about that," Heath lifted his head up, revealing his brightly glimmering eyes. 

"Well, Mister Richie, I don't have all day. If you have nothing else to question me about, I'm going to be on my way. Yes?" Heath didn't wait for an answer, quickly passing by the mafiosi and slamming the door behind him. Richie thoughtfully followed the young man leave with his eyes, chewing his lip. 

"Shit," he suddenly swore and, roughly snatching his gun out of jacket, shot right into the door. A perfectly circular hole with an ash frame winked back at him. 

***

The glass bottles dully shimmered back at Johnathan. He sighed and closed the cupboard doors. 

"No matrin, Richard. Tell Evangeline to get some." Johnathan heard the young colleague heavily sigh behind him. 

"Again?" He had to complain. 

"Yes, again." Johnathan grabbed the clipboard with the necessary papers on his way and quietly closed the door behind him. Mondays were hard, so most of the doctor personnel spent it at home. Johnathan quickly walked up the stairs, lightly knocking on the first door to the left. 

"Margaret?" 

Margaret wearily smiled with her sick eyes as the intern entered the room. It was only the second day since the temperature had stabilized, and Johnathan did not want to allow her off the medicine just yet.

"How are you feeling, miss?" 

"Okay, thanks." Her cheeks were extremely pale, lips giving off a dull beige color. Johnathan frowned and touched her forehead. Margaret uncomfortably shifted.

"Well?"

The intern grimly smirked. 

"Do you want to hear the good news or the bad news first?" Johnathan asked, faintly smiling as he looked down at her. Margaret quietly snorted. 

"Bad, please." 

"You're staying in this hospital for another seven days." 

"Damn it," Margaret sank down into her pillow, staring into the ceiling. Johnathan couldn't agree more.

"And the good one?" 

"We finally knocked off the bloody temperature." Johnathan took his hand away from her and wrote something on his papers. 

"Thank god," Margaret closed her eyes in exhaustion. "Can I finally pull up the blanket? I'm freezing." 

Johnathan sighed and shook his head, still knelt over his clipboard. Margaret clicked her tongue in frustration and looked away. Johnathan finished writing his report and silently walked out. Margaret listed to the clock loudly tick in the room and squeezed her eyes, trying to fall asleep. 

Johnathan slowly walked down the empty hallways, dropping off the clipboard in Collins's box as he passed it. Unlocking the basement, he entered the poor lit room and shut the door. His eyes scanned the room. Everything was annoyingly calm, the table with heaps of papers and flasks in the center, a closet full of illicit substances in the corner, and a blinking light-bulb. The glass tube heavily pressed down on Johnathan's chest. Slightly sucking on the insides of his cheek, Johnathan stared into the wall as his fingers dug into his pocket, clasping the cold glass surface. Taking it out in one, quick motion, Johnathan roughly undid the cork, still not looking at it, and drank half of what was in it. A cawing sound erupted from the room. Johnathan shifted his eyes to the table's edge. A rustled crow clenched the table with its crooked talons. Johnathan sighed and tucked the glass tube back into his pocket. Shoving the chair out, he sat down at the table and began writing down some formulas. Th bird did not move. After a little while, it cawed. Distracted from his work, Johnathan glanced in its direction. The crow answered him with its dark, unreal eyes. Sighing, Johnathan stroked the crow's feathers with the side of his finger. The bird didn't move, just slightly ruffled its feathers. They were soft and fragile. Johnathan slid his fingers closer to the crow's head. The bird suddenly twisted its neck and painfully bit Johnathan in the finger. The intern quietly swore, yet examined his bloody fingers in curiosity as the crow flapped its wings and flew on top of the cupboard. A crease ran through Johnathan's forehead. He glanced up at the crow, sitting at the very top. Pain throbbed in his finger, but Johnathan didn't care. Of course he didn't listen to Freddie, no matter how much he wanted to do. He couldn't. Because it was so real, you could practically go mad with it. However, if his calculations were correct, the crow, the cut, and the blood stains on the papers would all be gone by the end of the day. 

***

"Miss Lewly?"

Charlotte and Winnifred shared a lost look. Winnifred looked back at Mr. Cornsquash (technically Mr. Cornlash), Mr. Bayern's representative, or rather the unofficial boss for the lower workers. 

"Yes, sir?" 

"Mr. Bayern wants you in his office. If you can, please." Of course Winnifred couldn't, she was too surprised to do so. Nonetheless, she kept her eyebrows from rising up her forehead and silently followed Cornsquash outside. Winnifred had no idea why Bayern was summoning her. Hopefully for a raise. Her companion left her in front of the office. Winnifred shot him an annoyed look and walked inside, knocking at the door already when she was almost inside. 

"Mr. Bayern, you wanted to see me?" 

"Yes, Miss Lewly." Bayern returned back to his paperwork. Winnifred uncomfortably shifted from foot to foot. The bald man at the desk didn't offer her a seat, so she dared not bend over the already small privileges she had. 

"Sir..." she meekly started. 

"Yes, yes, Miss Lewly," Bayern roughly cut her off. "Sit down please, don't just stand there like a lamppost." Winnifred hated the comparison, but from the other hand, lampposts are very bright. Quickly plopping into the offered chair, she folded her hands on her lap. After a ten minute silence, Bayern spoke up, neatly sliding his paper over and looking at the victim in front of him.

"So, Miss Lewly," he paused. Winnifred nervously pressed her lips and looked down. 

"We need to donate a few of a workers." 

Winnifred blinked. "For....community service?"

Bayern was kind enough to crack a sympathetic smile. 

"No. A company more superior to us," Bayern unnoticeably grimaced, "asked us for some of our accountants." 

"What...company?" Winnifred frowned. "I thought we're the only accountant business in town." 

"The company's new," her employer sighed. "Sort of." 

"Sort of?" Winnifred raised her eyebrows. 

"Yes. They're led by our former local, Jack Browning Jr. You should remember him, he's about your age." 

Of course. Winnifred felt that someone scooped all emotions out of her and dumped them into the trash truck. 

"Quite far for a young man," was all she could say. "Am I one of those community service workers?" 

"Yes, you and Miss...uh...."

"Charlotte Hutchinson?" Winnifred tiredly helped. 

"Yes, that girl which works with you and a few other fellas around your offices." 

"Alright, I'll inform them. When are we to....move?" 

"Wednesday morning. Have a good day." 

"Have a good day, sir." 

The shut of the door echoed in Winnifred's ears as she closed it. Bitch. That son of a bitch.

***

Southwest to the mill and east of the railroad tracks was a lake, slowly evolving into a swamp. It had a wooden half-bridge kind of structure, extending not even into one fourth of the water. Johnathan grimaced and looked up, shaking his wrist back and forth to ease the fatigue inside it. The trees soaked in vivid greenness adorned the lake. Bushels of eels slowly rose up to the threaded, slightly rippling surface. Johnathan heard Heath whistle behind him. It was an edged, ragged, at times flowy tune, intermixed with water splashes from the Heath's legs. Johnathan sighed and returned back to his dissertation paper. He was two thirds done, then the rest of his summer would be spent in presentations. 

"You know we dragged you out of you burrow not to work again, right?" 

Johnathan smirked. 

"Yes, I am aware," he answered, slightly indenting and starting a new paragraph. Heath snorted and tilted his head to the side, not looking at Johnathan. 

"And where's the progress, man?" 

"I'm almost done Heath. Bear another month or two, and it'll be over." 

"And you'll go to Gotham to find a use for your knowledge," Heath sarcastically snorted. Johnathan lowered down his pen in his paper in annoyance. 

"I find that comment hypocritical, considering that you managed to do the same exact thing before me." He acidly noticed, turning around and staring at him. The muscles below the shoulder blades abruptly tightened. 

"What?" Heath's immediately reacted, stooping his shoulders even more. Johnathan turned back around and resumed his writing. 

"Heath, I am not an idiot."

"Really?" 

Johnathan slammed his pencil back again. Heath instantly fixed his mistake, escaping from his mouth as a form of defense. 

"I mean....sorry, I know you're not an idiot, otherwise you'll be in jail right now, it's just that...." Heath was silent for a moment. "I thought I was careful." 

"You were. It's just that I'm a relatively free psychologist, without any sick sisters to attend or vacations to leave." 

"So you're implying that Freddie didn't notice?" Heath specified, brokenly writhing his fingers. 

"As I said, I'm a psychologist. No, Freddie didn't notice." 

Heath pressed his lips, thinking something to himself. He slightly shook his legs to get rid of apathy. 

Winnifred walked down to the lake, clenching her portfolio and grimly looking forward. She stopped at the edge of the bridge. Johnathan was sitting on the right side, Heath was on the left. Their backs were facing each other. A free side which faced the open lake stared at Winnifred. Winnifred slightly smirked and, taking off her heels, walked down the wooden planks and sat in the middle of her two friends. 

"I've been promoted," she sighed, kicking the lily pad away with her toe. 

"Where?" Heath asked without a lot of curiosity. Winnifred slightly creased her lips in a grimace.

"Browning's bank." Heath frowned.

"What kind of promotion is that?" He bitterly inquired. Winnifred pulled in her legs below the dock at the the irritation in his voice. Johnathan simply raised his eye brows, never stopping from his writing. 

"Do you think it was intentional?" He asked matter-of-factly. 

"What?" Winnifred propped herself up with her arms, her face clouded in confusion. 

"You know," Johnathan pushed the glasses up on his nose with the tip of his pencil. "The list of recruits having your name on it from the very beginning." 

"Oh. Damn." Winnifred lowered down on the plank, glancing at Heath. He was sitting strictly against the sun, causing his profile to darken almost like a silhouette. Winnifred sighed and shifted her gaze on the sky. It was clear blue, veiled in an unseen gauze of summer. It seemed surreal. Winnifred grimaced and sat back up. 

"You guys are no help," she threw on the way, loudly lifting her legs out from the water and walking back into the forest. Johnathan sighed and passed his hand over his face. He glanced over his shoulder. Heath's shoulders were stooped even more than ever. 

***

_Dear Freddie,_

_Don't think that I don't mind. I fucking do. God dammit Winnifred, why did you have to go to Maine?_

_You know what I was thinking there on the deck? I was wondering if our lovely Jack friend remembers how I lit his house on fire._

_Before you start your objections, don't forget that he bloody threw me under the car. And also, there was no one in the house except him. His dad had enough bucks to recreate their cottage anyway. No frets._

_God, this is so fucking funny. Of course you were promoted intentionally. How else? Jack is, you know, schemer if that's how you call these sort of people. You're part of whatever he calculates in his wooden office. I don't like schemers. Too punctual. That's why I'm not a schemer._

_Tomorrow is your first day. Don't lose yourself. I'll time you._

_I'm sorry. I honestly don't know what's gotten in me._

_Don't read this letter. It's shit._

_Dearest regards,_

_Heath_


	14. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry folks! I forgot to update yesterday. Yeah, it's not like I went on a break or didn't know where to wheel out the story....I just forgot. Remembered, then forgot. I'm super, super sorry, so here's the chapter. Enjoy and don't forget to review! Thanks for reading!

The office didn't look much different from what she used to have. The work was also no different. However, Winnifred felt extremely uncomfortable. Every now and then, she would look up and scan the entire room, as if trying to see if anything changed. After a second, Winnifred found herself staring too much at her purse. Paranoid, she scolded herself. Immediately, someone knocked and Browning entered the room. Winnifred instantly jolted. Her eyes darted on Jack. 

"Good morning, Miss Lewly," Jack smiled. His eyes likewise searched her. 

"Or is that too formal given that I know you for a good portion of our lives?" 

"Let's hope that that portion will diminish as our lives elongate, Mr. Browning," Winnifred coldly answered, never budging her eyes from his face. Jack's smile slightly shivered. 

"Indeed."

Winnifred frowned.

"What do you want? I have work to do, and it would be quite rude to work in your presence. Sir." 

"Work can wait." Winnifred watched with growing internal horror and irritation how Jack drags a chair to her desk and sits across her. 

"So, Winnifred. Doesn't it feel strange work under me?" Jack lightheartedly asked. Winnifred chewed on the edge of her lower lip, before closing her folder. 

"I don't think I have the power to tell you otherwise, but it's actually Miss Lewly. And no, it doesn't feel strange working under you. Accounting is the same everywhere, Mr. Browning." 

His dark eyes narrowed. 

"Not letting me in anywhere, are you?" 

Winnifred smirked and snatched out a pen from the pencil holder. 

"Depends on the words letting in. I did let you into my office. As for everything beyond that, you are correct, boss, I'm not letting you in." She made an emphasis on the word boss. Jack didn't like her negative connotation. 

"Damn, you sound just like Heath," he muttered. Thank god, Winnifred thought. As far as she knew, Heath's eloquence just served him for the good. 

"I take that as....a complement." 

Jack lowered his eyelids in irritation. Well, at least _he_ let her into his feelings. Winnifred wasn't sure if she wanted to, but it was certainly better than being an open book to this....schemer. They were quiet for a moment.

"Are you done being here, Mr. Browning?" Winnifred tiredly asked. Jack just moved his eyebrows and walked out of her office without another word. When the door closed, Winnifred dropped her head into her hands. She felt sick, as if someone's fist ripped through her body and began squashing all the organs inside her. Winnifred slowly lifted her head back up and began writing with twisted vigor.

For the rest of the day, Winnifred tried to avoid Browning as much as possible. It was relatively easy. By the end of the day, Winnifred was actually uplifted. Running out the heavy, wooden doors, she felt even better when she saw Heath leaning over the shaky fence, obviously waiting for her. 

"Hey!" Winnifred ran up to him. Heath broadly grinned and, tossing his cigarette on the ground, threw his hand around her shoulders. 

"Hey there, little one." 

Winnifred jokingly punched him in the side. Heath's contagious smile got even bigger. They started towards the road. 

"Why are you here?" Winnifred asked in curiosity, holding his hand on her shoulder. 

"Work ended early today," Heath shrugged. "Regular Thursday trend. Few clients."

"What sort of clients?" 

Heath and Winnifred turned around at the same time. Jack was standing behind them, a cigarette elegantly positioned in between his fingers. Heath's smile seemed to freeze at first, before slowly fading from his face. Winnifred tensed, Heath's usually light hold becoming ten times heavier on her shoulders. 

"Good afternoon, Heath," Jack politely bowed. His eyes reflected in a dangerous way. 

"How's life?" 

"Fucking magnificent."

Winnifred carefully looked on Heath. Laughter seemed to be frozen somewhere in the depths of his features, covered by attentiveness and caution. Jack smirked.

"You never constrained yourself in your way of speaking in front of different people." Winnifred felt some sort of accent on different people. She felt the fingers of that fist position around one of her organs. 

"I am the same for everyone. Why the hell would I need to change my rhetoric habits?" This time it was hell which was emphasized. Winnifred felt how the organs fearfully shrink from the fist's grasp. The air suddenly started smelling of blood. 

"Out of curiosity, who do work now as?" Jack abruptly switched the topic. Heath quietly snorted.

"If this is just out of curiosity, then I'm not answering. You must have a better reason than curiosity, Jack." 

Browning crookedly smiled. 

"No, not this time," he amiably answered, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

"Then we'll be on our way." Heath mockingly bowed with a sarcastic smile and turned around, dragging Winnifred with him. Winnifred easily followed. She didn't really care, instead focusing on how the iron fist squeezes the juices out of her organs. 

"Freddie?" 

Winnifred startled, raising her eyes up on Heath. He looked concerned.

"Did your spasm start again?" 

It took Winnifred a few seconds to realize he was right. The blood in her nose only verified his words. 

"I'll be fine. It's just...never mind." Heath just lightly hugged her by the shoulders. Winnifred felt weariness drench her legs. 

"Can we go to our mill? It's closer. I'll call Auntie from there." 

"Of course." 

The mill breathed in that feeling that Winnifred seemed to be missing a couple of days. Tossing her jacket on the stool, she looked around the dear surroundings.

"Hold a minute, I'll get the tea," Heath ran past her upstairs. Winnifred smirked and knocked off her shoes. The wooden planks felt good through her socks. The telephone on the floor suddenly shrieked. Winnifred quickly walked over and picked up the receiver. 

"Hello?" 

"Howdy, listen, girl, I need Heath, is he here right now?" A gruff voice barked at her from the other end. Winnifred raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"One moment....Heath!" She shouted into the mill, lowering the telephone to her chest. Heath appeared in the middle of the staircase, a rusty, archaic teapot tumbling in his hand. 

"Aye, ma'am?" 

Winnifred wordlessly raised on her tip toes and handed him the entire telephone set. Heath raised the phone up to his ear, winking to Winnifred. She chuckled.

"Yes?"

The grin trickled off his face. Winnifred frowned, watching how Heath licks his teeth in concern. 

"Yes. Sure. I'll be here in half an hour. Yes....great." 

Heath dropped the receiver with a loud bang and shoved the set back to Winnifred. 

"Some shit of a client decided to ruin my Thursday. Here," The rusty teapot was added to the collection of objects which were, unceremoniously, shoved into Freddie Lewly. 

"I'll be back as soon as I can. See you later." Heath put on his trench coat and jogged out the door. Winnifred sighed and lowered down her arms, the light knocking of the teapot against the telephone mingling with the sound of the creaking, flung door, loosely swinging back and forth. 

***

Winnifred blinked. The blanket fluff scratched her wrist, leaving allergy like marks. Winnifred sat up. It took her a minute to realize that she was on the purple couch in the attic with a Scottish clad blanket on her. Shrugging off the sleep, Winnifred quietly tip toed downstairs and glanced into the so called guest room, otherwise known as wheat storage. Heath seemed to have fallen asleep in the same position he came, hands crossed on his chest, head against the wall. Winnifred never made it to his return, and now she marveled on how he managed not to fall off that chair in his sleep. Inaudibly chuckling to herself, Winnifred walked into the main room, on her way glancing at the clock. Shit. She was running late. Winnifred frantically, trying not to be super loud, looked for her jacket. Spotting it on the table, she grabbed it, setting a few pages flying off. Winnifred hurriedly picked them up, messily organizing them into a semi neat pile. Her eyes suddenly saw a familiar name on the top most. 

_My dearest Freddie_

Winnifred looked down for the signature, even though the familiar, slanted handwriting was more than she needed. 

_Heath_

Winnifred's eyes darted up onto the man sleeping in the room across. Something clenched inside her. Winnifred glanced back at the clock, the minutes mercilessly slipping past her fingers. Jack would totally question her if she comes late. Winnifred glanced back at the letter. After another second of hesitation, she tucked it into her bag and ran out the mill. 

Charlotte was already standing at her door when Winnifred skidded down the hallway. 

"You're late," she informed her friend, watching how Winnifred hastily battles with the keys and her door lock. 

"I know," Winnifred glanced over Charlotte's shoulder. The door of Browning's door was open. Winnifred looked back at Charlotte. 

"I checked in on Margaret in the morning. Everyone seems to get sick in the mornings." 

The door lock finally gave in, and Winnifred pushed it open. 

"See you during the day, Lottie." 

Charlotte rolled her eyes at the door, closed right into her face. She honestly got used to Winnifred's emotional jumps which she apparently did not outgrow. Humming something to herself, Charlotte disappeared into the adjacent office. 

Winnifred impatiently tugged off her jacket, throwing it on the handle of the chair, not caring to pick it up when it slipped off onto the floor. Setting her bag on the desk, Winnifred began scouring through its contents in irritation. Her fingers grasped a wrinkled, light edge. Instantly taking the paper out, Winnifred shoved the bag aside and unfolded the letter, not bothering to sit down. 

_My dearest Freddie,_

_The tea is in the cupboard by the way._

_Gotham is even worse during the day than during the night. Too gilded. That just annoys me._

_Richie really has some problems. That paranoid either has serious issues, either has nothing better to do. Maybe a mix of both. Isn't that what our sixth grade art teacher used to say? Damn, I'm getting to nostalgic these days._

_This is all so boring. I subtly chip away mob dealers capitals, and they don't even notice._

_I like Falcone. That guy is sharp._

_Damn it, Freddie, I have no idea where we're rolling. It's like being in a roller coaster car that stopped, and you're hoping that the mechanic will fix it or else you may be forever stuck in this roller coaster car for damn knows how long._

_Did I already say about the tea? I'm too tired to read. If I didn't, well then the tea is in the cupboard._

_Good night,_

_Heath_

Winnifred slowly lowered down into her chair, the paper soft on her fingers. She didn't know where to look. Her eyes traced the papers with bunch of numbers, graphs, useless statistics lying messily on her desk. Her fingers absently reached for a pen, lifting it up midair, then lowering it back down, rubbing it up and down with her skin as if trying to make it melt. The edge of her brain was replaying some old cassette Aunt Martha used to put on when they were little. Strange, she hasn't put it on in a while. 

"Winnifred?" 

Winnifred startled, abruptly glancing up. Charlotte was looking in through the doorway. She looked concerned.

"Did you hear me?" 

"Yes, yes I'm uh sorry...what's wrong?" Charlotte bit her lip. Winnifred frowned, something inside her sucking in the liver. 

"Charlotte?" 

"They called from the hospital."

Winnifred instantly ran over her chair, tripping over the table legs, and raced past Charlotte. Sighing, Charlotte slightly closed the door and departed into her office. Slowly, the door moved away from the lock, lightly hit the wall, before finally stopping. 

***

Johnathan thoughtfully looked through patient papers on the front desk when he heard someone call his name. 

"Johnathan!"

Johnathan glanced to his side. 

"Yes?" 

Winnifred quickly walked over to him. 

"What happened?" She demanded. Johnathan rose his eyebrows in amusement. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I received a call from the hospital," Winnifred impatiently explained, giving an annoyed look to curious Evangeline sitting behind the reception desk. 

"Did something happen to Margie?" 

Johnathan relaxed, squaring his shoulders.

"Only the best, she was released today in the morning." 

"Oh," Winnifred's shoulders sagged from relief. Her tense lips formed into a tired smile. 

"Let me guess, I'm late again?" 

"You are, Miss Lewly," Johnathan smiled, returning back to his documents. 

"You aunt was more responsible than you and took your cousin into her care." 

"Stop," Winnifred laughingly shoved Johnathan into the arm. He simply moved his eyebrows and offered an unnoticeable grin. 

"Preparing for tomorrow's conference?" Winnifred asked, glancing over Johnathan's shoulder. 

"Looks scary." 

Johnathan lightly smirked and turned over the page. Suddenly, Richard came skidding across the hallway. 

"Crane! Old Waner's cut! C'mon, three minute start." 

"Shit," Johnathan quietly swore and hastily slammed the the portfolio shut. 

"See you later," he quickly threw to Winnifred and went running after Richard. 

"Cut?" Winnifred repeated, lifting her eyes in amusement. 

"Surgery," Evangeline readily answered, typing something on the calculator with one finger. 

"Intern term." 

Winnifred nodded, following the interns with her eyes. A sudden wrinkle ran over her eye brows. 

"Shit." Winnifred abruptly turned around and ran out the hospital, tripping on her heels as she raced down the steps. Whipping the doors of bank open, Winnifred forced herself to calm down. However, once she entered her office, the anxiety took over again. Snatching the untouched letter from her desk, Winnifred pushed it into the depths of her purse. Her eyes scanned the office again. Everything seemed to be in place. 

"Charlotte," Winnifred suddenly called. No one answered. 

"Charlotte!" 

The brown haired girl appeared again. 

"Why are you screaming?" Charlotte crossly inquired. 

"Lottie, did anyone enter my office?" 

Charlotte wrinkled her forehead. 

"What?" 

"Did anyone enter my office?" 

"No..." Charlotte thought for a minute, then confidently shook her head. "No, or else I would've seen it. Why?" 

"Never mind. Thanks." After Charlotte left, Winnifred quickly glanced at the office to her left. The door was closed. Winnifred deeply sighed and walked back in, firmly shutting the door. Sitting down, Winnifred took out the letter from her bag. Her eyes scanned the uneven lines. She did not know what she was searching for. Heath was blunt, even in his secrets. That's what killed her about Heath. His stupid bluntness. As if he couldn't do the more wrong, yet comfortable, way. Winnifred unconsciously passed her fingers through her hair. He addressed this letter to her. Winnifred didn't understand why. She also didn't understand the meaning of the letter. She did, but not in the sense that Heath wanted her to. 

"Damn it," Winnifred suddenly swore and squeezed her temples with her palms. She bloody knew it. 


	15. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a side note, The Roman is Falcone (I don't think this nickname was mentioned in the Nolan movies). Oh, and Sherry Squires was the girl who rejected Scarecrow in highschool. According to the comics, he fired a gun in high school and, during the mayhem, Squires was killed. Anyway, thank you to all folks reading and reviewing this!

Something was wrong with the door lock. The key wasn't going in the proper way it should've. Johnathan sighed and pressed harder on the sharp metal edge, forcing the key to slowly turn to the right. The lock opened with a saving click. Johnathan flung the door open and tossed the keys on the counter. 

"Late," his grandmother informed him from the corner. Johnathan threw a glance on the old hag writhing in the dark and didn't answer. Sitting down in a chair, he began filling out the form. A crow suddenly flew centimetres from his head. Johnathan swatted it in irritation, not distracted from his work, however the second later, a sharp, wrinkled hand landed on his forearm. Johnathan automatically jolted from his chair, hitting his grandmother on the arm. His hand harshly hit her bony chest, setting her staggering backwards, before crashing on the ground and disappearing into thin air. His motion knocked over a stool with a box of chemicals and a lab coat underneath. Johnathan sighed, observing how the spilled chemicals spread in a large blotch over his coat. Suddenly, he frowned. Something moved on the coat. Squatting down next to the cloth, Johnathan slowly picked it up. The blotch was some inexplicable, dirty color, however Johnathan couldn't look at it directly, as if it was an eye trick due to illusions. Johnathan quickly picked up the empty bottle which spilled. SEROTONIN. The chemical which prompts hallucinations. Johnathan looked back at the ruined lab cloth and slowly stood up. Carefully placing both the bottle and the lab coat on the table, he walked over to the cupboard in growing anxiety. Harshly jerking the drawers open, Johnathan feverishly searched through their contents. In the last drawer, his fingers felt the old, ragged burlap material. Instantly, Johnathan felt the scratchy cloth over his face. Jolting the cloth out of the heaps of papers, not caring about the deep paper cut he earned in the process, Johnathan stared at the scarecrow mask in his hands, noose dangling at its side. 

***

Heath patiently waited, leaning over the brick wall. His eyes aimlessly traveled across the opposite wall. The flickering, uneven glare of the lights on the fourth floor weakly illuminated the crimson graffiti on the stones. Heath sighed out the smoke through his nose and looked to his side. The alley was empty, like yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before that. Heath pressed his lips in silent irritation and slowly took out the deck. His brown eyes kept on darting back and forth the alley. His fingers automatically began shuffling the cards, placing one after another. 

"Heath!" Heath roughly jolted when someone's hand unexpectedly landed on his shoulder. 

"Fuck it, Nickie..." The cards went spilling out of Heath's hands. He kneeled down to the ground, picking up the cards one after another. The other man hurriedly kneeled down as well, scrambling the cards together with skinny, pale fingers. The dim light highlighted his extremely young, browbeaten face. Heath stood up, flattening out the cards with his palm, and turned to his companion. 

"Where the hell were you? I waited almost a week." 

"Sorry," Nickie apologized, watching how Heath resumes his shuffling. 

"Couldn't catch the current. Ready?" 

Heath sighed and tucked away the deck into his pocket. He dragged over a shaky, wooden cart with his foot and sat down. Nickie hastened to do the same. 

"Well?" Heath finally asked, taking in a deep inhale of smoke. 

"There's certain business regarding the current judge..." 

"I'm done," Heath immediately snapped, standing up and walking out into the alley. 

"Wait, you didn't even finish listening," Nickie protested. 

"I'm not doing this," Heath harshly pointed his cigarette on the bewildered young man. 

"I am not a hitman. I'm a smuggler, okay?" Heath's face was hidden in the shadows, but the rugged outlines revealed the gnawing bitterness. 

"Tell the Roman that I'm not buying this." 

"He's offering fifty sheets," Nickie desperately tried, standing up as well. Heath snorted. 

"Do you think I'm miser?" He sarcastically asked, taking a step towards the frightened young man. 

"But-” 

"Not my specialty. Simple as that." Heath quietly cut him off. Nickie blinked from the smoke scorching his eyes. 

"The Roman is not asking you to kill Faden. He just wants you to bribe him over." 

"That's thug work," Heath shook his head. Nickie could hardly hold back the stinging tears, desperately trying to tell out the features of the man in front of him. 

"Please, the Roman will kill me if he hears I haven't persuaded you," Nickie begged. Heath took the cigarette out of his mouth, carefully examining the lad. He was barely eighteen, the childish swelling still present in his cheeks, and how the hell he got into such business Heath had no idea. 

"Go home," Heath finally answered. "I'll talk with your boss." 

"I don't think he's..." 

"Just go." Heath wearily rubbed his face. Nickie nodded and disappeared in the alley. Heath tossed the burnt cigarette and, putting his hands into the pockets, leisurely walked the other direction. Talk with Falcone. Prove he's no good for the job. Walk out. Heath was never too too squeamish about killing; after all, their entire Gotham Outskirts hunted frogs when they were five-six years old. However, Freddie was squeamish. And she never went on frog hunts. 

Heath quickly crossed the street and knocked the door to the basement. It was an underground pub, a great source of the society's true colors. Heath pushed between two loud drunkards. His eyes shifted from person to person. He caught a white tuxedo at the bar stand. Hastily squeezing in through the people, Heath stumbled out to the counter and leaned over the unsuspecting mafiosi. 

"Nickie told me." 

Falcone instantly startled, the white wine slightly rocking out of his glass. Through his corner vision, Heath saw a few men around him take out their guns. Unconcerned, he sat at the chair opposite off Falcone. That one drilled him with an irritated stare.

"You have a scare, boy, not that it helps your situation." 

"I'm not doing it," Heath harshly leaned forward. Falcone raised his eyebrows. 

"You dragged all the way here to tell me that? Boy, you have no sense of the value of time." 

"I'm doing it for the little lad that you'll lynch for the wrong answer." 

Falcone smirked. 

"That sucking puppy?" He leaned forward. "Did you even listen what he had to say?" 

"Yeah," Heath lit a cigarette. "I'm not a thug." 

"Then you obviously didn't listen," Falcone snorted, leaning back. "I'm not asking thug work, boy. If I did, I wouldn't give a shit on finding you." 

Heath simply glanced at him, before looking back down. The Roman scoffed. 

"I need someone to persuade the judge to resign. Sounds like subtle art, rather than fists and muscles, eh?" 

Heath narrowed his eyes. 

"Subtle art never seemed to be your weakness." 

"Listen, boy," Falcone cut in irritation. "Mitchell's too big of a fish, and it's much safer for me to use a hired man than my own boys."

"And why should I risk my life for something I don't give a shit about?" Heath instantly backlashed. He saw Falcone smirk through the smoke. 

"You're not subtle enough." 

Heath drew back, confused. Falcone slightly chuckled under his breath and slid over a piece of paper down the counter towards Heath.

"Here. Take a look." 

Heath glanced at him, then brought the paper up to his eyes. A boulder crashed on top of his stomach, smashing it down through his organs until it sickly bounced up. It was a photocopy of his recent letter to Winnifred. It was enough to set him to jail for drug dealing. For a moment, Heath felt like nothing wasn't going on. 

"Strange, I...I-I don't..." He looked up at Falcone. "Where did you get it?" 

"Doesn't matter," the mafiosi shrug. "It'll get you to jail right away." 

"Who gave this to you?" Heath demanded. Falcone crookedly smiled. 

"Of course, the addressee." He suddenly snatched the letter out of Heath's fingers and placed it into an inside pocket of his tuxedo. 

"I don't require an answer now. Take a week if you want. However," he patted the side of his jacket,"disobedience will result you shuffling your bloody cards in a cell." 

Heath silently stood up, throwing the cigarette down, and walked out. The night air was saturated with alcohol and sewage odor. Heath wordlessly walked through the waste fumes. He was so lost, that he didn't even notice some man tugging his sleeve. 

"Excuse me, how do you get to the hospital quickly?" 

"Stand in the middle of the road for a while," Heath absently answered and continued walking. The metro was empty as usual. Heath sat down in the first seat possible, aimlessly watching how the trashcan outside rocks to the motion of the train, then speedily disappears as the metro raced past it. His eyes traveled to the darkness outside, before the darkness enlarged and swallowed his mind as whole. 

The unacceptably bright light was what woke him up. Cold sweat trickled down his right temple. Heath tiredly opened his eyelids and pulled away from the glass window, leaving an even, quickly evaporating oval of sweat on the pane where his right temple was. Heath cracked his spine and looked around. The metro stopped at the last station. It's doors were wide open for some reason. Someone snorted next to Heath. The young man roughly jerked to his side, hardly hitting the window. A haggard bum was sleeping next to him. For a moment, Heath stared at him in disbelief, then looked around again. The metro was filled with sleeping people of various levels of the rotting society. There were hobos, punks, goths, everyone sleeping on the seats, leaning against the walls, and if none of the above was available, resting on the floor. A punk with piercings everywhere where he could find a place loudly snuffled opposite of Heath. A little knife shone at his side. Heath examined it for a moment, then carefully, but quickly grasped it, before making his way out of the compartment. 

It was relatively wide, with a dented line down the middle. The haft was comfortable. Heath thoughtfully fiddled the knife in his fingers, examining it from every side, before tucking it in his pocket with a sigh. It was probably around three in the morning, the sun was blocked away by the scrapers. The morning was unusually cold for summer. Heath felt an involuntary shiver convulsively snap his muscles. He knew the current judge. Mitchell. Known as Bitchell among gangs. Heath perfectly understood why Falcone wanted to get rid of him. Mitchell was apathetic towards the city, yet for strange reasons didn't dance under the criminality's flutes which, understandably, irritated many gangs. The best part was that Bitchell was extremely clingy to his position, despite all subtle proposals of his removal. 

Heath stopped next to one of the numerous large buildings. That was Mitchell's residence. The knife's blade painfully dug in into the side of his index finger. Out of the corner of his eye, Heath noticed a bum drowsily pushing his metal cart up the sidewalk. The cart's wheels sharply hit the asphalt border, rattling across the metal grate on top of the sewage opening. 

Heath felt inexplicable sweat form on the very top of his forehead. His fingers automatically clenched the haft, sensing the sharp blade cut into his palm. 

The cart rumbled on the sidewalk with a deafening sound, the upper metal flap harshly hitting the side. 

It felt like his ears were spliced. Heath winced, watching over his shoulder as the bum slowly picks us the garbage sack which fell out of the cart. 

A metal can rolled out of the bag, trundled down, and clinked with a piercing sound on the grate. 

Heath felt like he was going to kill that man any second now. Abruptly turning around, he walked away from the building, turning to some random alley, taking unknown twists and routes. Every common sound roughly hit him in the head, rattling his confusion in it's already fragile box which was about to explode. 

Heath angrily skidded around a corner. He appeared between in an alley of two brick walls, one of them splattered in vibrant colors of graffiti. Heath sat down on the sidewalk and rested his chin on his folded hands. 

There must be a way out of this situation. Killing Mitchell would make him the mafia's pawn. He wouldn't get out of it. 

Heath instinctively took out the knife and started balancing it on his index and middle fingers. 

The letter. 

How did Falcone get the letter? 

A wrinkle appeared over his eyebrows. He vaguely remembered the night he wrote it. He came exhausted and impulsively started writing the letter both to make himself fall asleep and to clear his mind of troubling thoughts. Then, he somehow made it to a chair and blanked out. The knife toppled on the ground, and Heath picked it up again. So, he left the letter on the table. Apparently. And when he woke up? Heath got distracted by the thought, and dropped the knife again. This time he didn't bother picking it up. Falcone said "addressee". Did he mean Freddie? Heath tilted his head, regarding the possibility. Winnifred might have seen the letter. That wouldn't cause her to take it though. Unless she really needed to. Heath thoughtfully kneeled down and took the knife from the ground. Instead of balancing it though, he took out a random card and began carving barely visible lines on it. Why the hell would Freddie need to take it? Heath scratched the card in irritation. Why the hell is this important right now? What if she did take it? If so, anyone may have had access to it. And all offices have photocopying machines. The knife accidentally pierced a hole through the queen of spades. Heath did not want to think about it. He was going too far. Heath stood up, unnerved by the formed hypothesis and his brain's uncertain reaction to it, and walked out of the alley.

***

"So are you going to go?" Winnifred asked in curiosity, hugging the portfolio close to her chest. 

"Most likely," Charlotte looked to the side, desperately trying not to blush. "I don't think I have a choice." 

"Huh?" Winnifred was confused. "I thought Sammy asked, not insisted." 

Charlotte shot Winnifred an annoyed look. Winnifred stifled down a giggle. 

"Whoops. Sorry." 

"You're impossible," Charlotte grumbled, picking up her pace. Winnifred bit her lip in an almost futile effort to hold back the laugh. Charlotte obviously had no sense of "proud departure". Really, what's the fast pace for if she could easily catch up? Which Winnifred effortlessly did, slightly knocking Charlotte on the shoulder.

"Oh c'mon, you know I'm joking." 

Charlotte's smile was interrupted by a call behind the women. 

"Freddie!" Winnifred instantly turned around at the familiar voice, feeling something fall up and down in her abdomen. Heath quickly ran up to them, eyes impatiently racing over their faces. 

"Hey Lottie, can you continue without Freddie? I need to talk to her. Privately." Winnifred silently studied Heath. He shot her an one sided glance, as if knowing that Winnifred got to the last unknown bit of him. The small, partly choked organ inside her screamed NO!!!! at Charlotte, whose nod and carefree "sure" choked it fully. Heath patiently waited while Lottie disappeared from earshot. Winnifred meanwhile studied his pockets. Their convulsing movements gave away Heath's fiddling with the cards, or the cigarette box, whichever was there. 

"Let's go, shall we," Heath suddenly proposed. Winnifred shrugged and wordlessly set the pace, forcing herself to lower down the portfolio. Out of the corner of his eye, Heath studied Winnifred's emotionless face. There were two questions in his head; the first one left confusion, the second one left void. Heath decided to go for the first one, as it was more important. He grasped into the knife which was in his hand. If Winnifred answers to this, then his theory is correct. Not that he wanted it to be. 

"Can I have the letter back?" 

Winnifred slowly turned to him. Her eyes fell on his outstretched hand, then up on his calm, waiting face. Winnifred blinked, then, shoving the bag up to her front, carefully took out the light piece of paper. Her eyes darted back on Heath's face. Something moved in his lips, however it disappeared the moment after. Winnifred quietly sighed and placed the folded letter into Heath's palm. His hand slightly shook. Without looking at it, Heath tucked in in his pocket, then continued walking. Winnifred wordlessly followed him. The fist covered the organ, yet she could feel it painfully pulsing at it's metal fingers. The plains shook from the slightly visible wind. 

"Was it on your work table?" Heath quietly asked, looking at the dusty road untwisting before them. 

"Yes," Winnifred quietly answered, clenching on her bag, trying to make the pain from the cutting bag strap deafen her guilt. Heath thoughtfully chewed on the inside of his lower lip for a moment. 

"Did anyone see it?" 

Winnifred was quiet. Her fingers tightened around the strap.

"Charlotte said that no one came in when I was gone." 

"You were gone?" Heath raised his eyebrows. 

"I got a call from the hospital." Winnifred watched how Heath looked away to the side, preparing to ask the next question. She did not want to hear it from him. 

"My office is next to Browning's, if that's what you mean," Winnifred slowly said, carefully following Heath's expression. Heath bitterly smirked. 

"Damn you," he suddenly said, not looking at her. Winnifred stopped, astonishment and hurt filling in the emptiness in her chest. 

"What?" It was a coarse whisper. Heath simply glanced at her, before looking away. There was no remorse in his eyes. Deep, deep hurt sliced her heart back and forth, it's abrupt strokes coloring with blood as her organ convulsed. Winnifred quickly reached out his pocket and clumsily snatched the letter.

"Then why did you write this?" The paper shook in her hand as she held her voice from breaking all together. Winnifred quickly took in the air with her nose, desperately trying to keep her vision straight. Heath's eyes shifted to the paper she held in front of him. 

"Because I needed to tell you at some point."

"Tell me," Winnifred bitterly repeated. "Tell me. Not write." 

The wind ruffled the prairie grass, quietly whistled in the clouds, brushed against Winnifred's ankles. She bent the paper, harshly clasped in between two fingers. 

"Winnifred," Heath quietly started, before falling silent again. He wordlessly took the letter out of Winnifred's hand. She blinked, allowing the small crystals run down and away her cheeks.

"You think Jack saw it/ What does you think he'll do?" Winnifred quietly asked. Heath passed his hand through this hair, not looking at her. 

"Nothing of which I know." 

"And what do you want to do?" 

"Know." 

Winnifred looked away, trying to hide her tears. Heath quietly smirked under his breath and started walking. Winnifred didn't follow, following his fading silhouette with her eyes. She squeezed her head with her hands. Then, Winnifred abruptly turned around and ran, following some sort of impulse. Flinging the bank's door wide open, she raced up to Browning's office. Winnifred glanced into the window. The office was empty. Her fingers rested on the round, gleaming doorknob. This is ridiculous. Her fingers slowly wrapped around the knob. Fucking ridiculous. Winnifred stared at the shining surface, beaming directly into her eye. Her fingers loosened, before slipping off. Tears automatically streamed down, as Winnifred coldly observed the door knob in front of her. 

"Winnifred?" Winnifred tiredly turned her head to the right. Browning was standing there, questioningly observing her. 

"What are you doing?" Winnifred blankly looked at him for a moment, then bitterly smirked, sliding her hands into the pockets of her vest. 

"I thought you were in your office," she calmly shrugged, walking forward. Jack crookedly smiled. 

"Well?" 

Winnifred's eyes traveled down, then back up at him. 

"Do you have a cigarette? By any chance." Jack seemed surprised, however nonetheless reached into his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Winnifred leaned down, holding her hair with her hands away from the dangerous flame that sparked in the lighter. The smoke unpleasantly sizzled inside her mouth, filling her with the acidic taste of both uncomfortable calmness and bitter memories of high school. Jack wordlessly studied her while she straightened back up again. His eyes narrowed. 

"Are you...are you crying?" 

Winnifred held herself from coughing and blew out a large puff of smoke, obscuring her face. 

"Nope. See you tomorrow, Jack." 

She walked past him before he could understand any further. Winnifred was done with the cigarette at the entrance, throwing it into the bush with disgust.

***

_Dear Winnifred,_

_So if Jack seen've it, then he must have some connection with Falcone. It'll be too much of a coincidence if he didn't. Think yourself; Jack won't go for the first mobster, asking him if he has this guy named Heath and is willing to blackmail him._

_Interesting. If I don't work with Mitchell, Jack will drag me into jail. And if I do work with Mitchell...I still get into jail. Falcone said he's too much of a big fish. I doubt I'm the only competent briber in Gotham, so Jack is simply trying to highlight me to the cops. What a double-edged sword._

_See where I'm going? I'll do what my client wants me to do. Sure. With my conditions however. They involve his client. We'll see how this scheme works out._

_I didn't mean it by the way. Actually, I did, but I don't mean it now. I'm sorry, okay?_

_Your buddy,_

_Heath_

Heath looked up and rested his chin on his hands with a sigh. He heard Johnathan quietly swear behind him, accidentally cutting his palm on a piece of paper. 

"Do you know Mitchell?" Heath randomly asking, studying the wall, decorated in chemical diagrams, brain diagrams, and notes of various kinds in front of him.

"Mitchell?" Johnathan repeated, licking his bloodied palm. He frowned. "Doesn't sound familiar." 

Heath sighed and dropped the pen on the desk.

"Didn't you live in Gotham?" He tiredly pointed out, rubbing his forehead with his hand. Johnathan thoughtfully wrapped a towel around his palm, standing behind Heath. His eyes studied the diagrams. 

"Are you talking about Mitchell the judge?" He tore off the pinned brain diagram from the wall and observed it. A crease formed above his eyebrows. 

"Yeah, I knew him." 

"Really?" Heath turned in his chair in surprise.

"When?" 

Johnathan, still looking at his paper, sat down on the couch, layered in papers, and compared the wall diagram with the one next to it. 

"When I was fifteen. He was part of the investigation lead on the case of the murder of Matilda Crane. Pen please?" 

Heath wordlessly raised his eyebrows and tossed Johnathan the pen. He nimbly caught it with one hand and crossed something out on the brain diagram. 

"And? Did he...you know." 

"No," Johnathan shook his head. His eyes traced the lines of the diagrams.

"It wasn't a big case. Someone just wondered why a regular customer at the egg stand wasn't coming anymore." 

"What about high school? That must have been a big case," Heath commented in curiosity. Johnathan smirked. 

"As if you don't remember." He looked at Heath. "I made it before the police could arrive." 

"Poor Sherry Squires. Freddie is prettier though." 

Johnathan chuckled and placed the diagrams aside. He leaned back on the couch, visibly relaxing. 

"Very true. Another reason why teenage psychology, second to insanity, is by far the most interesting to study. At one point they're mature and all, before doing something stupid."

"Like falling for Sherry Squires," Heath concluded, organizing the stack of papers on the desk into a neat pile. Johnathan lightly smiled, bitter merriment drowning in his face.

"So why do you need Mitchell?" He asked. Heath grimaced.

"I need to force him to resign." 

"You need to?" Johnathan snorted. "How much did those guys pay you to make you so desperate?" 

"Nothing," Heath sighed, grabbing another pen from the holder. His fingers spasmodically tugged off the cap, before clasping it back in place with a small clink.

"Just the guarantee that I won't be shuffling my next deck of cards in jail." 

Johnathan quietly whistled and glanced at Heath in confusion. His eyes traveled down on Heath's fingers, tugging the pen cap back and forth. His eyes flickered back on his friend.

"Which thug is it?" 

"The Roman," Heath passed his hand through hair, clasping his fist. 

"And the worst part is that's it's not even him. It's Jack." 

"The Browning guy?" Johnathan repeated, quickly thinking something to himself. 

"You think he's tied to him?" 

"That's what I'll try to prove," Heath crookedly smiled, standing up and walking in front of Johnathan. 

"If he really wants to see me in jail, well then I'll give him all the opportunities. I'm a nice guy." 

Johnathan shook his head with a distorted grin, before back glancing up again. 

"Let me guess, Freddie again has no idea what you're up to," He stated, looking at Heath with a mocking stare. Heath rolled his eyes and plopped down next to Johnathan on the couch. 

"It's a funny thing. She kind of started this whole nonsense. But of course I won't tell her. You think she'll....respect me after all of this?"

"She might," Johnathan shrugged. "She doesn't seem to mind that so far I've killed two people and paralyzed one." 

Heath smirked. 

"True." His brown eyes softened. "I just don't want to get her into all this dirty business. It's already too much that she's working for that asshole." 

"Unless Freddie'll get into it herself," Johnathan pointed out. Heath simply looked at him, deciding not to answer. 


	16. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 7

"Repeat what we're doing again," Charlotte demanded. Her voice was about hit the banshee notes. 

"We are going to investigate our boss's slate," Winnifred patiently explained, desperately hoping that Lottie would believe her. 

"I don't think it's as flawless as everyone thinks." 

"Oh yeah?" Charlotte sarcastically raised her eyebrow. "Do you know how much the world cares about what you think?" 

"What do you mean?" Winnifred fired up. "I know about..." she quickly counted in her head. 

"Five people who care, including you." 

"Freddie, you can't just go on and do stuff without having a valid reason," Charlotte half closed her eyes, visibly summoning her, running-out, source of patience. 

"I do have a valid reason," Winnifred argued. Charlotte's eyes snapped open. 

"A reason you can't tell me," she acidly pointed out. Winnifred pressed her lips. Charlotte rolled her eyes. 

"Freddie, the entire town knows about your so called relationship who-punches-one-first with Jack when we were in school. If you think I'm doing this just because you want to equal out the scores...." 

"This isn't about me." 

"Then what, Heath?" Charlotte snorted. "Even better." Winnifred was quiet for a moment. 

"Lottie, don't think I don't know the consequences. I do..." 

"You just forget them sometimes." 

"....fair enough," Winnifred admitted. "But this is important. It actually is." Charlotte looked at her for a moment. 

"How important?" She finally asked. She noticed how Winnifred's eyes avert to the side. 

"I don't now," Winnifred confessed. "But I think it is very important for...some people." 

Charlotte sighed and rubbed her forehead with her hand. 

"Freddie, did you just hear yourself?" 

Winnifred hastened to fix her mistake. 

"Lottie, if something happens, I'll take the blame for myself, seriously, all you'll have to do is pay some fee or something...."

"Stop here," Charlotte cut her. "I'll do this just because I don't fancy Jack myself and because you never meant anything bad for me. So what do you want me to do again?" 

"Distract Mickey," Winnifred quickly said, face lightening up with joy. 

"You were the best in Drama Club, so it must be easy for you."

Charlotte scoffed and stood up. 

"And what do I ask him for? Birth certificates?" 

"Work agreements," Winnifred lightheartedly corrected. 

"And what if Jack catches us?" 

"Out of town. Banking stuff." 

Charlotte's green eyes narrowed, and she opened the door. Looking out of her office, she saw that Mickey was sitting inside Browning's office, filling out some papers. 

"Well?" Winnifred asked, looking over her friend's shoulder. 

"Damn you," Charlotte muttered. Winnifred's eyebrows slightly twitched. 

"That will be the second time I'm sworn at in two days," Winnifred thoughtfully said at loud. Charlotte turned her face towards her. 

"Not surprised. Was the first one Jack?" 

"No, it was Heath." 

Charlotte stifled an exclamation and confidently made her way towards the office. Winnifred hastily stepped aside from the doorway, positioning herself next to the bookshelf where Mickey couldn't see her. Charlotte left the door open, making it easy for Winnifred to hear. 

"Hi, sorry for the trouble...I'm Charlotte Hutchinson, one of the new employees."

"Hey there. Mickey, and no, you don't trouble me at all." 

"Really? Well, I am an...." 

"Accountant?" Winnifred heard both of them laugh. 

"Specializing in business agreements," Charlotte added after having her laugh. Winnifred slightly winced. It was too obvious. 

"Specializing in business agreements?" Mickey seemed to think the same. 

"I didn't hear of that kind of accountant." 

"I'm not surprised. It's the oversimplified version. I'm the official representative of NBAA, National Business Agreement Association. I verify business agreements and records. Nothing much, just fancy words and boring procedures. Browning said I could check his records for the company credit. Doesn't change anything, only adds more reliability." Winnifred raised her eye brows in amusement. Whoa. Lottie does know her stuff. She could practically hear Mickey's neurons hammer the wooden words WHAT on his brain wall. 

"I mean...Browning knows right?" His voice was uncertain. 

"Of course. It's illegal otherwise." Winnifred heard the chair swiveling back and the sound of an opening closet and the shuffling of papers.

"Here's the documentation of Browning's non competing alliance with Gotham National Bank...." A folder slapped down on the table. 

"Agreement with Maine Local...." Another slap. 

"And the rest." There was a loud thump. Charlotte hurriedly collected the folders. 

"Thank you, Mickey, that's all I needed. Hey, I was thinking...do you want to go out sometime?" 

Winnifred simply shook her head with a smile and glanced into the glass doors. Mickey looked slightly embarrassed, while Charlotte was busy fake blushing. 

"Sure," Mickey agreed after a short hesitation. "How bout tomorrow?" 

"Great," Charlotte broadly smiled. "At one, at the town square. That's the real reason why I came, by the way." 

Mickey smirked. Charlotte waved to him and then quickly walked back to her office, firmly closing the door. 

"You. Were. Absolutely. Awesome!" Winnifred immediately sprang up to her friend, taking the folders from her hands.

"NBAA?" 

"I thought it up," Charlotte shrugged with a smile. "No one knows all government organizations by heart. Name a big name to a small secretary and they'll fall for it." 

"Especially if they're made by a belle femme," Winnifred chuckled, taking off the snap from the folder and taking out the papers. Charlotte punched her in the arm with a grin and quickly began clearing off the table. Winnifred hastily spread the documents across the surface, looking over the titles. There were thousands of them. Agreements with big banks, tiny banks, names of unfamiliar people, pledges against fraud and cartel formations, all ending the same way, with Browning's large signature. 

"This is not it," Winnifred muttered in irritation, moving on to the left of the table. 

"Did Mickey give you any personal documents?" 

"Should've," Charlotte absently answered, intently studying one document. She lifted the paper up to her eyes. 

"Freddie?" 

"Yeah?" Winnifred shuffled through the papers. 

"Come over here." Winnifred tucked out a document, glanced at it, before putting it back down in annoyance. 

"What?" She asked, walking up behind Charlotte. That one wordlessly showed her the document. 

"This document concerning Millard's stocks. It's so strange." 

"Who?" Winnifred turned to Charlotte in confusion. Her friend wordlessly placed the check inside her vest, tucked all the other folders into her bag, and walked out the door. Winnifred hurriedly followed. As soon as they were out of her office, Charlotte quickly locked it. 

"Let's go, I'll explain on the way," she threw to Winnifred. 

The day was sunny and bright. Winnifred impatiently tucked her hair behind her ear, closely following her friend's words. 

"I know you guys aren't much of newspaper readers, maybe except Johnathan," Charlotte started, lowering her voice. "But Bill Millard was one of the most prosperous, corrupt businessman in Gotham City. He managed steel. I know, because I was on a tour of his company in twelfth grade." 

"Why?" Winnifred furrowed her eyebrows.

"Senior report crap, remember? You and Heath skipped it." 

"Oh. Oh yeah, that's right." 

"Yeah." Charlotte was quiet for a moment. "He died two years ago. The court ruled that it was a heart attack. Although there were rumors that Millard was actually poisoned by his driver." 

"What?" Winnifred's eyes widened. Charlotte bitterly smirked. 

"It's Gotham," she sadly noted. "Murder is common there. Here we are." They stopped at the local library. Charlotte pushed the creaky door and walked in. 

Winnifred was always kind of wary of the library. The books were old and gave off an ancient smell, but it was the lighting and the old style which really creeped her out. The bookshelves were made of dark wood and close together, the dusty, dark rugs were embroidered in twisting patterns, and the lamps gave off an reddish light. Johnathan loved this place. Winnifred hated it. Heath just laughed at them.

Even now, Winnifred involuntarily glanced around for ghosts. Charlotte confidently made her way to the counter and leaned over the granite desk. 

"Hello, can we see the newspapers of 1999?" 

"What topic?" The librarian asked in a boring tone. 

"Bill Millard's demise, please." 

"Follow me," The librarian stood up and led them to a far away corner. Walking behind her, Winnifred leaned over Charlotte's shoulder. 

"You know how weird that sounded?" She quietly inquired. 

"What?" Charlotte wrinkled her forehead. 

"Bill Millard's demise, please." Charlotte shot Winnifred an annoyed look and walked over to the small, round table where the librarian laid out the newspapers. 

"Thank you." Charlotte waited for the librarian to leave, then kneeled over the table. Winnifred sat on her knees, slightly moving the papers with the tips of her fingers. Her eyes studied the flashing titles. _William Millard Found Dead In His Bedroom. Billionaire Millard Dead. Millard's Driver Accused Of Murder. Young Nick Singhin Accused Of His Boss's Murder._ Winnifred lifted her eyes on Charlotte. She answered her with a silent stare. Winnifred looked down at the date. 

"On the night between 16th to 17th of November, 1999 Bill Millard was found dead...." 

"What was the date on the contract?" Winnifred slowly asked. Charlotte took out the contract. 

"17th of November, 1999,” she read out. Winnifred frowned. 

"How...how is that possible?"

"Well, Millard was found dead at around...." Charlotte glanced at the newspaper, "11 in the morning, and the stocks were bought at 8:56. Doctors predict that the heart attack occurred at 9.31, so technically Browning had all the legal right to buy the stocks."

"And how many did he buy?" 

Charlotte turned one newspaper towards Winnifred. _Banker Jack Browning Becomes Owner Of Millard Company_.

"Apparently more than 49 percent," Charlotte grimly smiled. Winnifred glanced up at her. 

"You think this all is too coincidental?" 

"I don't know what I think," Charlotte sighed, leaning back on the chair. 

"Given that all of this happened in Gotham and its corrupt history..." 

"Heath would be able to prove this," Winnifred muttered to herself, picking up one newspaper and studying it. 

"What?" Charlotte leaned forward. Her face was perplexed. "Heath knows this?" 

"Heath knows something," Winnifred emphasized. "I don't exclude the possibility that he may even prove this." 

"But you need so many confirmations," Charlotte argued back, resting her arm on the table and bending her fingers as she talked. 

"Doctor confirmations, medical analysis, testimony of like a thousand different people who are god knows where right now...." 

"Well that's why you brought the folders right?" 

For a moment, Charlotte drilled her friend with an annoyed stare, before taking out the folder from her bag. Winnifred reached for them, yet Charlotte held them back. 

"I'm afraid you'll still have to tell me why we are doing this." She warned. 

"What is there to tell about, you've seen with your own eyes that Jack is involved in dirty business." Winnifred argued, eyeing the folders with her eyes.

"By pure luck, sure," Charlotte agreed,"But you seemed to know this beforehand?" Winnifred passed her tongue over her upper gum. Sighing, she quickly glanced around her and leaned forward on the table. 

"I think Jack is involved in dirty business," Winnifred quietly started, "because Heath is involved in it -” Charlotte's eyes slightly rounded, however her face retained the same focused expression. 

"-and somehow those two intersected." 

"You know how fantastical that sounds?" Charlotte shook her head in disbelief. "You're basing your claims off what I assume Heath accidentally mentioned and driven by your strong dislike towards Jack, you conclude that he is corrupt?" 

"Why not?" Winnifred shrugged. "He already had minions in school."

"Freddie." Charlotte did have any words. 

"What?" Winnifred rebuffed. "When Heath asked me about the letter, he was concerned whether Browning came into my office or not, which means that he was already suspicious of that guy." 

"Because it's Heath! What kind of testimony is that?" 

Winnifred rolled her eyes in impatience. 

"Okay, let's just say I was using my gut feeling," she snapped and waved the newspaper in front of Charlotte's eyes. 

"But it was correct, wasn't it?" 

"Not confirmed yet," Charlotte growled, slapping the newspaper down. Crossly glancing at Winnifred, she handed over the folders. Winnifred eagerly snatched them, swooshing the newspapers off the table in one big movement of her hand. Charlotte quickly gathered the scattered newspapers on the floor into one stack. 

"Here," Winnifred looked down on the floor, "You can look through all the business stuff, since you're the better expert out of the two of us." 

Charlotte mumbled something unpleasant and obediently took the documents from her friend. 

"And what are you going to do?" She asked, eyeing Winnifred, or rather the documents that were in front of her friend's face. 

"Research his personal letters." 

"You mean who he had sex with?" 

The documents slapped down on the table to reveal Winnifred's irritated face. Charlotte grinned. 

"No," Winnifred forcefully said, "It's just that I may recognize some mobsters' names." 

"That sounded weird." 

Winnifred ignored her and lashed out the letters in front of her. To her hard luck, most of the personal letters were business letters. Winnifred glanced at Charlotte sitting in front of her. That one already requested the librarian for more newspapers and was writing something down in her notebook. 

"Hold on just a sec," Charlotte shot to Winnifred, "I'm gonna check if their copy machines are still working." 

"Oh...yes, of course." 

Winnifred followed Winnifred turn round the corner of the bookshelf before looking back at the letters. 

_Mister Jack_

Winnifred tilted her head. This letter started strange. Winnifred looked down at the signature. _The Roman_. What the hell? Winnifred hurriedly took out her own accountant notebook and on the back of the page with numbers on it began writing. 

_-The Roman?_

Winnifred glanced back at the letter itself. Her forehead wrinkled. 

_I agree to your terms, as long as you hold true to mine. It is quite possible to do what you are asking. However, I heard you want to strike the same business with Richie. That's a bad idea, Mister Jack. More mob dealers does not mean more guarantee. Quite the opposite. Nicky will bring you the details._

_The Roman_

Winnifred felt her legs sweat under the skirt she was wearing. Holy shit. The inside voice inside her head once again declared Heath's letter. _Richie really has problems._ Winnifred automatically shuffled through more papers after the letter she was holding. More letters from the Roman, detailed accounts of a completed assignment, list of companies. Winnifred, the letters bending in her grasp, walked around the table and harshly turned the newspaper Charlotte was studying: _Foster's Company Ousted From It's Throne._ Winnifred looked back at the messily scribbled note. 

_12/12/2001_

_Tomorrow at regular for about foster business. CF_

Winnifred felt an involuntary shiver pass through her spine. She frantically searched through more papers, trying to find the word Millard.

_nicky will find him at eleven. you have four hours. Roman_

Winnifred felt the distorted feeling of victory seep out through the sweat beads on her forehead. Apart from that, her emotional capacity seemed run out. It was so unbelievable, even with all the evidence in front of her. Winnifred looked for some more familiar names, yet none of them mentioned Heath. The letters dated back to about her stay to Maine. The folder was empty. Winnifred sat there, biting her lip when Charlotte returned. 

"Sorry, I ran to Sammy on the way....what happened?" Charlotte frowned. 

"Photocopy everything," Winnifred shoved the letters towards her friend. Her voice was blank. Charlotte glanced at her in concern, before gathering the papers and disappearing out of the room. For a while, Winnifred listened to the lazy blinking of the lights above her head. What now? After ten minutes, Charlotte returned, papers neatly ordered, and looked at Winnifred.

"Well?" 

Winnifred nodded. 

"Read them." 

Charlotte obediently shifted the letters towards her. As she read, her eyebrows came closer and closer together, slight interest transforming into concern, before twisting in realization. 

"God damn it..." Charlotte snatched the nearest newspaper and quickly scanned it with her eyes. 

"Well?" Winnifred bitterly smirked. Charlotte swiveled to her. 

"This makes so much sense! Foster was a well know mafia dealer, and who in the entire Gotham world with its apathetic police can oust out mobster? Only another mobster." Charlotte turned back to the newspapers. 

"Same with Luchesse. If you ask me, this is a perfect scheme. Jack strikes a deal with a mob dealer to get the best situation possible in the excessively lucrative Gotham business and in return gives," Charlotte triumphantly shook a contract in her hand, "A secure, police-proof banking account at sixteen percent." 

Winnifred shook her head. 

"I have to tell Heath." 

"You do," Charlotte agreed. "Here," she tossed Winnifred the copies. "In case he doesn't believe you. I'm going to take all the documents myself." 

"Thanks." 

Winnifred ran out the library and raced to the mill. 

"Heath!" She flung open the door and skidded into the room. Silence warily greeted her. Winnifred looked around in concern, but the mill was empty. Not letting herself down just yet, Winnifred ran back to the town. She didn't even make it downhill. Even from here, she saw the the church wall was void of its players. 

"Damn it." 

Winnifred raced back into the forest, hitting the branches out of her face. The dormitory's main door was open. Tripping over the stairs, Winnifred made it to the fifth floor and flung Johnathan's door open, not even wondering why it was unlocked. 

"Johnathan!..." He turned, and suddenly she was attacked by snakes hitting her in the face, crawling up her body. Her brain exploded into a million, bloody bits. Winnifred screamed. 

***

Heath thoughtfully observed the business people walking up and down beside him. 

"Bitchell sits on the second floor," Nicky quietly explained. The two men were sitting on the steps of the Gotham Court building. Advocates, procurators, attorneys, and judiciaries walked past them, only some of them shooting the guys a scolding look. Heath tossed away the cigarette and stood up. 

"Great. You'll show me." 

"I can't. The court knows me," Nicky looked horrified. "They scanned me two years ago." 

"Really?" Heath raised his eyebrows. "And?" 

"Vindicated, but...." 

"Perfect. Then you have nothing to fear." Heath took Nicky by the shoulders and gave him a slight push. 

The building looked even more glorious from the inside. Heath smirked. How ironic. 

"To the right," Nicky whispered, frantic eyes darting back and forth. Heath obediently turned. They passed two large doors, cramped with media reporters and two blank faced policemen. 

"What's going on?" Heath quietly asked, eyeing the commotion. 

"Hearing," Nicky responded. His pallor face lit up. 

"That means Mitchell's office is free for the moment." Heath wordlessly ran up the wide staircase. The second floor was made up of offices of various lawyers. It was mostly empty. A young woman in a brown suit with a folder in her hand quickly passed them, gifting them a wary look. 

"That's the new DA," Nicky explained in a hushed town as soon as the woman disappeared. 

"A significant opposition to us." 

"Us you mean by criminals?" Heath specified, eyes traveling from one office label to another. 

"Of course." 

Heath smirked and came to a halt. 

"Stop. We arrived." The label Judge W. Mitchell glimmered back at him. Heath didn't even try the knob. Instead, he squatted down and took out the punk's knife. Carefully inserting it into the key hole, Heath turned the blade. The knob gave a nice click. Heath lightly pushed the door with his hand. It swiftly swooshed. Heath looked back at Nicky and smirked. 

"After you." Nicky bit his lip. Heath chuckled and, standing up, entered the cabinet. It was spacious, decorated in dark wood, with a closet and a working desk. 

Heath whistled. 

"Why exactly do I need to tell him to resign?" Heath turned over the cases on the table. Nicky cautiously looked around and closed the door. 

"Um, it's something to do about Falcone's client," Nicky pinched his forehead. 

"Something about exposing someone who the client distastes..." Nicky shook his head.

"It's confusing. I didn't really understand it. Boss didn't go in details." Heath's eyebrows creased. Thoughtfully taking out the knife, he slightly tossed it in the air, before catching it again. His eyes darted up at the young man.

"How long has Falcone had that client?" 

Nicky rubbed his forehead, trying to remember.

"Three years, maybe four? I don't know. I do know that it's a very lucrative client, and Falcone doesn't want to lose him." 

"Then what does Bitchell has to do with anything?" 

Nicky waved his hand in unconcern. 

"He's just a pawn. The client doesn't care for him. Falcone just wants to put Faden on the spot. 'Ll make everyone lives easier." 

"Then why resign? Isn't easier to kill him?" 

"Not really. There's going to be a big investigation, given that the judge himself is murdered. Plus, Roman doesn't want to drag attention to his client. The DA is already suspicious enough." 

Heath contemplated over the information for a second. His finger traced a line on the desk. 

"How often are hearings here?" 

"Every other day," Nicky shrugged. "I told you. The new DA is very active." 

Heath nodded, not really paying attention to what Nicky was saying. A paper , particularly the first sentence, on the judge's desk caught his attention. Heath abruptly shoved the folders which were covering the paper aside. 

_Miss Rachel Dawes,_

_I will indeed look into the matter of Jack Browning using the city's criminality to progress his own interests._

Heath looked down at the signature. _William Mitchell, Judge._ God, this was perfect. Heath glanced back at Nicky, impatiently waiting at the door. A dreadful feeling crawled into the inside his neck, tying a small note in the middle.

"Let's go. I'm done here," he said in an purposefully apathetic voice. Nicky exhaled in relief and walked out, holding the door for Heath. The hearing was still going on when they lowered down to the first floor. The skyscrapers looked dark next to the navy blue sky. Heath lit a cigarette and breathed out the smoke. 

"Tell your boss that I'll be done with the task by the end of this week," he finally said. Nicky nodded and abruptly turned down an alley. Hath took a deep inhale of the smoke, desperate for it to calm down his nerves, but ended up in coughing it up. Suddenly, his cell phone rang. 

***

Johnathan yanked off his mask and rushed up to Winnifred. 

"Freddie," He firmly took her by the elbows. She stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. Johnathan tightly smiled, leading her down to the couch. 

"Johnathan," Winnifred whispered, still not quite recovered from the shock. There was a small stream of blood running from the corner of her lip. 

"What...what was that?" 

"It's okay," Johnathan rubbed her by the shoulders and quickly walked over to his closet. Taking out the bottle which said ALPRAZOLAM, he walked backed to the kitchen. Pouring in some water, Johnathan mixed the drug in the cup, before returning to Winnifred. She was shaking. 

"Hey," he touched her by the shoulder. Winnifred jerked, yet accepted the cup. 

"What is this?" She asked, taking a sip of the mixture. 

"Alprazolam, commonly known as Xanax." 

Winnifred spat out the sip she's just taken. 

"Are you trying to feed me with drugs?" She instantly fired up. Johnathan held himself from rolling his eyes. 

"They'll call you down, I promise." 

"Oh no, thank you, I'm calm now," Winnifred snapped and shoved Johnathan back his cup. Johnathan sighed and placed the cup on the table. Winnifred crossed her arms, trying to stop the shivering. Johnathan traced her gaze to the mask, lonesomely lying on the floor. 

"Is that for your experiments?" Winnifred quietly asked. 

"Yes." Johnathan picked up the sack and placed it into the cupboard. 

"Why did you come?" He asked, turning back around to Winnifred. 

"I was looking for Heath. It's important." 

Johnathan raised his eyebrows. 

"Is it concerning Browning?" 

Winnifred's pressed lips and stubborn expression gave away the answer. Johnathan sighed and walked over to the cord phone. 

"That's what happens when you're friends with a psychologist." 

"You can never make him a surprise birthday party," Winnifred sighed, standing up and walking behind Johnathan. The intern smirked and dialed in the number. 

The dial tone sang into his ear, before abruptly cutting with Heath's voice.

"Hello?" 

Winnifred immediately grasped the receiver out of Johnathan's hand. 

"Hi, this is Winnifred. Where the heck are you?" 

"I'm in Gotham, why?" Winnifred licked her crackled lips. Her tongue touched the edge, sensing the fresh blood on it. 

"Listen, I have to tell you something important to tell you. Jack has a business with a mobster." 

A sigh echoed in the receiver. 

"Yeah, I know. Anything else?" Winnifred frustratingly clutched the phone. 

"Heath, we have documented evidence -" 

"We?" 

"I and Charlotte. We borrowed Browning's business papers for examination." 

"Hackers," Heath chuckled. 

"Heath." 

There was a short silence in the receiver. 

"What kind of evidence?" he finally asked.

"Like everything," Winnifred wildly gestured, almost knocking off Johnathan's glasses. "Allegations to crime scenes, letters to some Roman, documentations of illegal transactions..." 

"Alright. Thank you."

"Wait, Heath," Winnifred frantically tried to grab his attention, sensing that it's slipping out of her hands. 

"What?" His voice snapped, as if swatting an annoying fly. Winnifred bit back the hurt and quietly sighed. 

"I'm sorry for what happened." It was silent. 

"It's okay. It was addressed to you anyway." 

Winnifred lowered down the phone, staring at the receiver, uttering a monotonous dial tone. Holding back her tears, she handed the phone over to Johnathan. 

"See you tomorrow." Johnathan heard her trying to stifle down a sob. "Good luck on your press conferences." The door quietly shut down behind her. Johnathan slowly sat down, passing a hand through his hair. He sharply lit up a cigarette and leaned back on the wall. The smoke curled in front of Johnathan's eyes twisting and fading away. He knew that Heath was capable of surprise if he felt like it was necessary. It was his default mode, switched off years ago, just for her. 

***

_Dear Freddie,_

_Browning wants me in jail because he finds my face too irritating. I'm so fucking triggered, I can't win here, I have lose. I don't want to lose. I still hold the joker. If I have the joker, then why should I lose?_

_Heath_

Charlotte yawned into the coffee mug and glanced and Winnifred. She was sitting on the lobby couch, tightly clutching the white mug to the point where her fingers went pale. Charlotte lightly touched Winnifred by the shoulder. 

"Freddie? Did you tell Heath?" 

Winnifred blinked and looked at Charlotte. 

"Yeah, I told him," she blankly answered. 

"And?" 

"He said thank you. That's all what I've been hearing from him since the past four days."

"Good morning, ladies," Bobby cheerfully came in, sipping on his coffee. 

"How are you all today?" 

"Well," Charlotte tiredly smiled. Bob raised one eyebrow. 

"Certainly doesn't look like it." 

Winnifred cracked a distorted grin. Bob showed her a thumbs up and switched on the common room's television. 

"Brighten up your ladies' mood with some television." The voice of news reporter filled the room. Winnifred sighed and stood up to get herself some more coffee. She was careful to avoid Jack, who just entered the room.

"Hello, I am John Rein, here on Gotham News..." Bob tossed the remote on the couch and sat down next to Charlotte. Winnifred meanwhile poured herself some of the coffee from the teapot and started walking towards the couch.

"This morning, at eight twenty three a.m., Judge William Mitchell was found dead in his office with a slashed throat." 

"Oh dear," Bob shook his head and took a sip. Jack's face was unreadable.

"Next to the body was found a joker card, most likely carelessly dropped by the murderer." 

The TV flashed a footage of the joker card, spattered with blood. Charlotte felt her breath being knocked out. She knew that joker card, everyone knew it in this town. There was a sound of shattering dishware behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *takes in deep sigh*.....Okay, folks, so this was written _long_ before my brain learned about privacy infringements, the meticulousness of the process of getting all the evidence, and all that stuff, so, realistically, everyone would be in jail by now, not just Heath :) However, I finished this fanfiction long before I realized the absurd easiness of how Charlotte and Winnifred were able to pinpoint Browning, and since too much was based on their investigation and I was emotionally vacuumed out at the end of this fanfiction, I decided to let it stay. This fanfiction is, in its own way, a little absurd, so why cut stuff out? ;) Long story short, please let it slide: this was one of my first fanfictions and I wasn't really into realism, logic, and practicality at that point (I'm afraid I'm still not, but that's off topic). I just hope you enjoy the story and leave reviews! Thanks for reading!


	17. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: First violence coming up, folks. Not overly violent, but just to be safe....trigger warning, violence coming up. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading! Don't forget to leave reviews!

The burning sweat simmered down the closed eyelids, scalding the thin skin. The eyelids fluttered, and slightly opened. A narrow, horizontal streak of color breached in between the absolute darkness. Heath licked his bottom lip. His breathing was uneven, shaking between shallow and abnormally deep, painful breaths. The blood dripped from the knife. His fingers slightly twitched and tightened their grasp on the hold. Heath squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head on his arms. _The mighty skyscrapers stared at him through the window glass. Ants of cars hurried underneath. It was hard to breath under the mask. The breath just knocked against its inner surface and reflected back on you. He made the mask in seventh grade. Freddie drew a happy face. He drew a concerned, shifting into angry one._ Heath lifted his head up and rested it on the wall behind him. Tears of acid relief and incomprehension steamed down the cold cheeks. His eyes blankly studied the graffiti on the wall. He couldn't make out the words. It was something between DEATH and DEAF. 

_Every single time someone walked past the door, his insides would tie themselves into a clump, which would then be squeezed, drenching out the juices of nerves. When they would leave, there was a bitter taste of relief and impatience on his tongue._

The lamplight dully flickered and burnt out, hiding the graffiti. 

_The paper to the DA was safely in his pocket. Heath felt it with numb hands. He had a strange fear that he forgot to get it. The same moment, the key turned in the knob. Bill Mitchell calmly walked in into his office, whistling a happy tune. In the window glass, his figure was down, cheerfully walking around his desk. The eyes behind the mask wordlessly followed the dim, fading contours. The reflection suddenly turned, its face looking up directly at him._

_"Good morning, judge," Heath calmly said. The hands, folded in front of him, clutched the knife._

_"Why...good morning," Mitchell answered at loss. "How did you get into my office?"_

_"Damn it judge, you just took five dollars away from me."_

_"What?" Mitchell asked in confusion. Heath slowly turned around. The mask pressed heavily against his face._

_"My five dollars I bet with Nicky, judge. Nicky said your first question would be how did I get in. I said that your first question will be who am I."_

_"I'm sorry to have taken your five dollars, but maybe you can keep some with my second question. Who are you?" Mitchell's voice was extremely strained. His eyes ran up and down the strange man. The man in the mask smirked._

_"I like your optimism. It'll help you." Mitchell's eye brows tightened into a tied string, but before he could scream, Heath lunged forward, skidding his knee over the desk, papers crumpling under his weight, and, grabbing Mitchell by the shoulder, sliced the skin on his neck wide open. The belated scream transformed into something of a gurgle, spilling out with the blood that soaked the bleached white collar and tie. The mask pulled on Heath's face, draining the breath out of him. Heath staggered back, watching how the thirsty papers drink in the blood, tired of their usual ink wine and demanding something stronger. Mitchell was lying on those papers, feeding them. It was dry in Heath's mouth. Slowly, he took out his deck of cards. The blood on his fingers stained the edge of his pockets, but Heath didn't care. His eyes flashed down on the cards in his slippery hands. Heath slowly began shuffling through them, looking for the right card. It didn't come. Heath's movements became faster, more agitated. Anyone could come in. Not that it would matter, but he still needed to see Freddie in the eyes. Six of hearts, ten of diamonds, jack of clubs, queen of hearts, king of spades, ace of spades, joker.The card winked back at Heath. He wordlessly placed it next to Mitchell, slightly tilted to one side and just a bit pushed under a piece of paper, as if the murdered accidentally forgotten it._

Heath slowly reached into his pocket, feeling the deck of cards. He took it out and began apathetically moving one card after the next from hand to hand. 

King of hearts , three of spades, two of spades, six of spades, jack of spades....

Heath flatly switched a few cards around to break the spade streak. Continuing on with his shuffling, his gaze flickered back and forth as black and red passed in front of his eyes. 

Six of hearts, ten of diamonds, jack of clubs, queen of hearts, king of spades, ace of spades, king of hearts. The joker was gone.

Heath silently tucked the deck back into his pocket and, standing up, walked out of the alley. The morning was just beginning, the sun shyly peeking over the corners of the horizon. Heath walked down the subway station, but instead of going into the train, quickly ran down the steps and began walking alongside the tracks. He was in a slight hurry. It pulsed in the back of his brain, but not hardly enough to cause him to run. The mask's strap dangled back and forth on his fingers. There was a sudden rumbling behind him, and a train whizzed past his side. It was there, and then it was gone. Heath followed the disappearing train with his eyes and looked away. It was twenty minutes on the train, forty by foot. By this time, the news would have probably aired the Murder of Judge Bill Mitchell. Heath found the title funny and laughed. It was a broken, bitter laugh, escaped and gone just like the train a few seconds ago. 

***

The mill greeted him with an eerie smile. The early rays of sunshine supernaturally glowed in the wooden, fading building. Heath tossed his mask on the floor and roughly sat down across the table. He carefully put the bloody knife on the windowsill. The blood on his hands gradually dripped away while he was coming here, leaving only an uncomfortable feeling on the palms. The papers were all ready for him. Grasping his pen, he traced out the first line. 

_My dear lovely Freddie_

His fingers were shaking. For a moment, Heath stared at the paper, then abruptly crumpled it. Holding the curled fist with the distorted paper in them next to his chin, he absently looked out the window. For the first time, he did not know what to say. Heath heard someone's footsteps echo outside. Automatically, he reached into his pocket and tossed out the deck on the floor. The cards splattered against the wooden boards, some skidding right up to Winnifred's feet in the doorway. 

"Heath?"

Heath did not want to see her face. Instead he kneeled over the papers, clasping the pen once again. 

"Can you sort out the cards, while I finish this?" 

Winnifred's eyebrows came together. 

"What?" 

Heath impatiently gestured with his hand, pen between his fingers. He still did not look at Winnifred. 

"You know, kings with kings, queens with queens. Please, do it for me." 

For a moment, Winnifred stared at him, then wordlessly kneeled down and began shifting the cards together. Heath returned back to his paper.

_My dear lovely Freddie,_

_Do not ask me if I did this. I hate this question. You might look trivial in my eyes._

Her trembling fingers passed over the cards, eyes flickering back and forth between the reds and the blacks. She slowly moved the jack of hearts next to the jack of diamonds. 

_Funny thing. Johnny killed three people, and you don't mind. I guess it's more of a witness type thing._

Winnifred shakily placed her finger on the ace of clubs. Slowly she dragged it out from underneath the three of spades.

_I don't feel sorry. It's actually quite funny - our and Jack's fight is so pathetic. I carried this pathetic-ness to another step._

The ace was splattered in blood. Winnifred's eyes widened in shock, as they traced the wooden floor to the object lying a few feet away from her. It was a mask. 

"Heath?" Winnifred said in a flat voice. 

"Yes, my dear?" Heath quietly inquired, finishing up the sentence. Winnifred's eyes transferred back to the cards in front of her. 

"Where's your joker card?" 

Heath was quiet for a moment, then quickly finished his letter. 

_Damn it, Winnifred._

_Heath_

He got up and, kneeling over Winnifred's shoulder, arms digging into his knees, looked at the cards. 

"It's missing?" He half merrily, half surprisedly asked. 

"Yes," Winnifred answered, eyes frantically going for card to card. Her voice was on the verge of breaking hysteria. 

"Oh well," Heath shrugged, straightening out and walking towards the opposite wall. 

"I had to give the police something to find me." 

"Did you actually..." Winnifred didn't finish the sentence, tears running from her eyes. Heath heaved a sigh, looking up into the ceiling. 

"Of course, Freddie." 

Winnifred covered her face with her hand, trying to stifle down a sob. Heath turned around and walked up to her. Crouching down next to her, he wordlessly hugged her. Winnifred pressed the side of her face against his arm, crying into her hands. Her fingers were wet from tears, clogging her uneven breathing. Heath's arms strengthened their grasp around her as he answered all her unsaid questions, one by one. 

"The mobsters did not force me to do this. I forced myself. Believe me, it was necessary. No, I will not tell you the reason. I'm not sorry." 

His words echoed in her mind, resonating against the walls and bouncing back at her. Winnifred. Winnifred. 

"Winnifred," Heath softly touched her cheek. Winnifred slightly jerked when his fingers touched her skin. The tears cooled on her face, slowly dripping from her contour down on her neck. Her fingers dug into Heath's lower arm, leaving bruises. 

"Winnifred, it's going to be alright," Heath gently said, slightly rocking her in his arms. Winnifred's eyes traveled across the room, trying to find something that wasn't there. 

"Winnifred, it's going to be okay." Winnifred simply tightening her grasp on his arm. Heath sighed and looked upwards. 

"You managed to live knowing that Johnathan killed his grandmother, admirer, and paralyzed his enemy," he quietly commented, looking back down at her. 

"You'll manage to live with this too?" 

"I have to try," Winnifred whispered, voice coarse with tears. Her eyes stared blankly into space. Her fingers tightened on his wrist, crumpling his sleeve. 

"It's either living with it, or hating you forever. It's an easy choice." 

"Or so we think," Heath sighed, resting his chin on her forehead. He felt distorted gladness and pride fill him. Freddie remained true to their friendship. It was something. 

"Why did you kill him?" Winnifred quietly asked. Heath moved his arm, shaking of the numbness. 

"I'll say that to the court."

"The court?" Winnifred frowned, blinking her eyes. The movement sent a few teardrops water falling down her cheeks. 

"Of course," Heath lowered his face towards her with a crooked grin. "Why do you think I went through all the pains of leaving a joker card, not cleaning my knife, and placing the mask in the most obvious place possible?" 

Winnifred shivered, automatically glancing at the mask. 

"You didn't clean your knife?" 

"No, it's on the windowsill," Heath nodded that way. Winnifred jolted and abruptly thrust Heath's arm off of her, quickly standing up. Heath sighed and looked to the side, arms limply lying in his lamp. Winnifred made a few steps towards the door, her hand wavering towards her head. 

"Is it the fit?" Heath asked, watching her movements. 

"No," Winnifred shook her head, lowering her hand. "No, it's not that." She fell quiet, looking outside the door. 

"I think someone's coming. For you." 

"Great." Heath stood up and stood behind her.

"Go away," he quietly said. "I want you and Charlotte to be ready with your documents." 

Winnifred's eyes traveled down, then she wordlessly stepped down, quickly walking away from the mill. Heath passed his fingers through his hair, then leaned against the wall. God damn it. God damn it. 

***

The TV monotonously buzzed in the living room. Johnathan slowly lifted his head up from his arms, outstretched on the working desk. Tiredly swinging in his chair, he grabbed the remote control from the handle of the sofa and pointed at the TV. The screen flickered and died away with a soft beep. Johnathan tossed the remote back on the couch, missed, and swiveled back around, pressing his hands to his mouth. Heath was an idiot. The fact that he planned it and not spontaneously improvised from excessive adrenaline highlighted two alternatives - that either Heath was a complete moron, or that there was something greater than adoration to Winnifred. Johnathan had a disturbing assumption that it was the latter. His gaze fell on the glass tubes lying on the corner of his desk. He was almost finished with his fear toxin. The burlap, or the potato sack as Freddie called it, was lying next to them. Johnathan took it in his hands, sensing the rough material scratch his skin. He remembered the day when he placed it on and fired the gun in the parking lot, causing Bo Griggs to get paralyzed and Shirley Squires killed. Still. It wasn't a direct kill. Johnathan thoughtfully rested his chin on his fist, the mask still clenched between his fingers. He remembered the satisfying chaos flickering in front of the blurred vision behind the burlap, the sudden shudder when Griggs' car ran into the wall, and Heath's amused, hilarious face. 

***

The pillow was wet and cold from the sweat. Winnifred feverishly pressed the uncomfortable to touch pillow to her chest, trying to stop her shaking. She refused to acknowledge the fact that Heath was a murderer. Her brain just spat it back at her with the image of his eerie calmness when he mentioned the knife. Winnifred buried her face into crumpled sheets. She couldn't break off. She wanted to, but she couldn't. In the mill, unknown to himself, Heath had such an....expression on his face, that Winnifred was afraid. Actually afraid for the first time. Blood slowly trickled down the wall of her nose, clogging up her breathing. Winnifred slightly opened her mouth to help herself breath. How is she going to look in her aunt's and cousin's eyes? The snakes curled around her stomach abruptly tightened into a knot, making Winnifred writhe from pain. She tossed to the other side, wet hair sticking to her temples. The blood tiptoed down her upper lip. Winnifred closed her mouth, allowing the blood to fall between her upper and lower lips. Her lungs thrashed for more air, and Winnifred abruptly breathed open. The blood fell on her tongue, soaking it with the salty, bitter taste. Winnifred squeezed her eyes shut, helpless tears automatically rolling down. 

Still looking up, Winnifred tossed her right hand to the side. Her fingers felt the cold metal handle of the alarm clock. Lifting it up, Winnifred switched on the light, blinking from the sudden brightness. Five forty-seven. Placing the clock back on the floor, Winnifred sharply got up, sending her mind into a dizzy kaleidoscope as its vestibular apparatus readjusted for the sudden change of horizon. Winnifred wearily took her grey suit from the closet and tiredly made her way to the bathroom. Her bruise-rimmed eyes brokenly gazed at her from the mirror. Winnifred looked down and quickly wiped off the blood, cold water streaming off her face. Rubbing herself with a towels, Winnifred quickly dressed and fixed her hair with a black, velvet bow. She looked at herself in the mirror again. 

"Winnifred?" Winnifred's blue eyes shifted to the other corner of the mirror. Aunt Martha was standing in the doorway. 

"Yes, Auntie?" Winnifred tiredly responded, the snakes curling in anxiety. Her aunt's features were soft, with the slight flavor of concern. 

"I am sorry about what happened," Aunt Martha gently said. Winnifred quickly looked down at sink. We all are. Except Heath. 

"You are not at fault, honey. Who could have known-” 

"Auntie, please don't," Winnifred harshly replied, turning around from the mirror and walking past her aunt. 

"I still trust Heath even if he committed like a thousand, a million murders." 

Her aunt sadly watched as Winnifred tugged on her shoes and coat. 

"But that's foolish, Winnie. Everyone would say that." 

"Well then everyone is,” and she closed the door into her aunt's face. Once outside, Winnifred pressed her hand over her face, trying to keep herself from breaking. Taking a deep inhale, the woman marched down the road, clenching her fist to numb down the pain in her mind. 

She made it quickly to the bank. Flinging her folder down on her desk, Winnifred heavily sat down. Her fingers automatically scattered for something to fiddle with. They ran into an old paper clip and instantly began distorting it in every direction. There was a slight knock on the door. Winnifred shuddered and swiftly tossed the paper clip aside. Her features momentarily transformed. 

"Come in." 

Jack carefully walked in. His eyes darted across Winnifred's face, before averting to the side. 

"Good morning, Winnifred. May I have a moment?" 

"I don't think I have the right status to refuse you, Jack," Winnifred lightly smiled, putting her hands in front of her. Her fingers intertwined and clenched with incredible force. 

"How can I help you?"

"Oh don't sound so casual, Winnifred," Jack quietly slashed, moving the chair closer to her desk and sitting down in front of her. 

"As if I don't know the basic psychology of a person in your situation." Winnifred looked away, deciding not to tell him how much Johnathan, the real psychologist in town, would disagree. Her fingers slightly twitched. 

"My situation is all right, thank you," Winnifred quietly responded. 

"I certainly do not need people like you telling me that." 

"Like me?" Jack coldly raised his eyebrows. 

"Two faces," Winnifred slightly shrugged, watching him from the corner of her eyes. Jack smirked, intertwining his fingers in front of his face.

"Two face? Mind explaining yourself?" 

"Can you drop that...snobby tone of yours?" Winnifred snapped in irritation, finally letting go of the lid over her steaming cauldron. 

"I have no idea what you are trying to get, Jack, but don't look you feel anything except...satisfaction that Heath is finally behind the bars."

"Which happens to be his place," Jack retorted, anger simmering in the way he cracked his finger. 

"C'mon, if he didn't end up in jail, he'll probably be lying somewhere dead in a ditch." 

"He's too smart to be lying in a ditch," Winnifred seethed, clutching the edge of her table to keep herself from blasting into his face. 

"Really?" Jack sarcastically lifted his eyebrow. "I'll be sure to tell him that at the court."

"What court?" Winnifred blanked out for a moment. Jack snorted. 

"An example of true friendship. Complete ignorance of each other." 

"Heath spoke to me about the court," Winnifred crossly rebuffed, mad at herself for letting go of her position. 

"And what did he tell you I wonder?"

Winnifred tightly grinned. 

"That he's going to beat that shit out of you." 

She could see how Jack's facial features fight against each other, desperately trying not to gorge her face. Here we go. The real Jack Browning, student of 10th C, third desk right of the bookshelf, diagonal to Sammy and behind Jacob's. Winnifred felt her nails pierce her skin. 

"Very well," Jack finally breathed out. He stood up. "See you at the court on Tuesday. And don't dare slack off of work." 

Winnifred stared at the door. She was insulted. She was so insulted. Grabbing her bag from the stool, Winnifred frantically scoured through her bag. Here they were, the copies which would wipe Jack off the face clean. The copies shivered in her hands. Winnifred released her grasp before she could crumple them even more. 

***

Heath quickly stacked his letters onto the shelf and walked out to the middle of the room. He looked around. Everything seemed to be in its place. Heath crackled his knuckles in agitation. He had to look normal, so that the police wouldn't suspect that he knew about them coming. There was a loud knock on his door. Heath startled. For a moment, he just looked at the wooden frame. Slowly, his agitation faded away, crawling back under the lock, being replaced with joking calmness. The door opened up to four policemen. 

"Good morning, gentlemen," Heath politely greeted them, following the one police officer who walked passed him and entered. 

"Mister Heath?" 

Heath's head snapped back to the officer. 

"Yes sir?" 

"You are accused of the murder of Judge William Mitchell who was killed this night," The police officer articulated into Heath's face. 

"You will spend your time in jail to wait for your trial on Tuesday." 

"Fair enough," Heath shrugged and obediently followed the cops to their car.

"Sir," It was the young cop which entered the mill. The officer stopped, turning to the young one. Heath also halted near the door, ignoring the other police officer's attempt to force him in. 

"There are bloodied playing cards sorted on the floor. And a mask." 

The officer looked back at Heath, who answered him with an intent stare. The policeman looked back at the waiting at the doorway youngster. 

"Okay. Anything else?" 

"Yes, sir. I found a knife on the windowsill. It's covered in blood." There was a tense silence in the forest clearing. Heath's chuckle sounded like scratching nails over wood. 

"C'mon guys. Why so serious?"

Heath sat down into the car and shut the door after himself. The cops quickly followed inside, hurriedly starting the engine. They swiftly took off, passing the lonely houses on the desolate road. Heath's eyes breathed in the bleak scenery. Summer seemed to be ending when they were only in the midst of July. The car stopped, rocking back and forth. They were in front of Gotham Outskirts Local Prison. This town was never creative with names. Which is why Heath was always the center of vividness; he did have the best Halloween costume in fifth grade. 

The cops led Heath inside, tightly holding him by the broad shoulders. They walked inside a gloomy place. Heath eyed the empty benches behind the bars. Looks like it will be only him today making himself company. Oh well. The cop was fiddling too long with the lock. Heath impatiently waited, rocking back and forth on his toes and heel. 

"Excuse me, can I help you?" He finally offered, slightly tilting his head. The cop glanced at him. 

"Stay back," he ordered. Heath raised his eyebrows and slightly leaned back. 

The cop returned back to the lock, painfully yanking it to the right. The lock clicked. Heath quickly thanked the officer with a nod as he paced into the what do they call it? "Waiting room"? 

Heath sat down on the bench and leaned his head back on the wooden bars. It was uncomfortable. The bars heavily pressed on two sides of the back of his head. Heath slightly shifted his body and closed his eyes. He needed some sleep. The door suddenly flung open, and Heath opened his eyes. Some men walked in, laughing and joking. One of them, the fatter one, stopped in front of Heath, smiling from ear to ear as he examined him. 

"Well, young man, I dare thank you. You finally got me work in this crime-less town! What the hell did you do to be behind these bars?" 

Heath slightly grinned. 

"Nothing much. Yesterday I went to the doctor. You know, at Gotham Hospital? Well, he gave me one year to live, you know, bloody health problems. So, in the heat of the moment, I killed him. The judge, meaning you, will give me fifteen years. Problem solved." 

The smile faded off the judge's face. "You're pulling my leg." 

Heath's grin widened. 

"Of course. Yesterday, I killed Gotham's fine judge, one of your kind. A good incentive to let me go, right?" 

The judge's eyebrows knitted together. He turned to the cop. That one answered with a nod. The judge turned back to Heath. 

"I'm afraid it will be a bit more than fifteen," He flatly said. "Just to make sure that you don't go hunting me in the night." 

"I like your logic, sir," Heath's lips were ready to crack from the piercing grin. 

"It will help you at the trial. Have a nice day." Heath rested his head back on the bars, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. 

***

Johnathan slowly opened the door, the cop close behind him. Heath was there, sitting on the bench with closed eyes. 

"I'm not sure you can get something out of him, sir," the young cop quietly whispered. "He seems to be asleep." 

"Then we'll have to wake him up," Johnathan responded, eyeing Heath's strained features. He slowly walked closer to the bars, leaning on them on one side. His eyes quickly scanned the arrested from head to foot. 

"Heath," he quietly calmed. Heath's eyes slammed open. 

"Oh, hi." 

The cop stepped aside, not wanting to be part of their conversation. Heath quickly looked Johnathan over, not standing up from his bench. 

"A sweater, nineties jacket, jeans and tennis shoes. Don't you have work today?" 

"At three." 

Heath leaned his head back, gaze fixed on the ceiling. 

"Did you know?" 

"That you'll one day rip off your chain and decide to do whatever you want? I never excluded the possibility. You have these occasional irrational emotions which cloud your other senses. I just thought it grew less once Jack left and your friendship with Freddie tightened."

"God, I don't think she'll ever smile again," Heath muttered through his teeth, arm muscles tightening in their crossed positions. Johnathan smirked. 

"More likely smile than forgive you." Heath's eyes darted back at Johnathan. 

"She said she'll live with it." 

"Of course," Johnathan sighed, looking at his watch. There was barely noticeable sadness in his voice. 

"Half of the people in this world live like that." 

"But she forgave you," Heath pointed out, unexplained sweat forming on his temples. 

"Because she never had to forgive me in the first place." 

They fell silent. Heath's stare was blank, but the way his jaw was working gave away his concern. Johnathan sighed and tucked his hands in the pockets. 

"Is there anything you want me to do?" 

"Yeah. Your door unlocked, all the times. In case I'll have to run." 

Johnathan shrugged in agreement, then left the room without another word. Heath sighed and closed his eyes for the third time. He wasn't disturbed anymore. 


	18. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is the "court process" chapter....and it's just as unrealistic as my "investigation" chapter. So, bear with me, folks. Once more, thank you so much for reading and don't forget to leave reviews! Hope you enjoy the chapters.

Standing on the balcony of the room, Billy looked down at the procession. The smoke curled off the tip of his cigarette. He could hardly believe this was all going on for Heath. The fact that Heath murdered some puny judge didn't surprise him. It was just surreal. 

"Excuse me, sir?" An old woman called him out. "No smoking in the court room." 

Billy licked his lips and tossed the cigarette down the floor. 

***

"Do you have all the documents?" Winnifred whispered to Charlotte, leaning to her side. 

"Yes," that one quietly replied, nervously looking around. "Do you think we'll need them?" 

"Heath said we will." 

"Well I don't think we can trust Heath's side anymore." 

Winnifred moved back again to her side, concealing her hurt. Charlotte noticed the slight tension in her friend's face and put her hand over Winnifred's. 

"Freddie, I'm sorry," she gently said. "I didn't mean it." 

Winnifred managed a weak smile, not wanting to fight with her friend at this moment. Her eyes traveled around the room, until she spotted Johnathan standing next to a column. His gaze was tense, inspecting the judge looking through his papers on the pedestal. The psychologist slightly turned and saw Winnifred. His deep blue eyes slightly darkened as he nodded. The corners of Winnifred's lips slightly twitched. Johnathan seemed to sigh, then looked away. The lawyers walked into the room. Everyone stood up, standing until the judges sat back down. Suddenly, everything seemed to freeze in the room. The accused walked in, led by the cops. Winnifred felt the breath seeping away from her chest as she saw Heath's bruised eyes, looking directly at her. His crackled lips slightly jerked, then he sat down. Winnifred's nails dug into her skin. Her eyes darted to the side of the room, where Jack was sitting. His gaze was fixed on Heath. The judge cleared his throat. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have gathered here to examine the case of the murder of Judge William Jake Mitchell of Gotham City. The man accused is sitting in front of you. His name is Heath....Heath." Winnifred looked down as the judge stumbled over Heath's last name, or rather the lack of it. A slight murmur went over the court. Heath calmly listened. The judge proceeded with the formalities. Winnifred mostly kept her eyes during this, feeling the dread heavily fall down on her chest as he pronounced the details of the murder and as the police displayed the evidence.

"Defendant, do you reject anything that has been said so far?" 

Winnifred's eyes darted upwards. The room seemed to hold its breath. 

"No sir." Heath's clear voice echoed on the walls. "I killed the man." 

Winnifred quickly looked down, aware of the renewed murmur and tension traveling around the people. She felt the sweat on the back of her neck trickle down under her collar. 

"May you describe the circumstances?" 

"Of course, sir." Some advocate came up with a Bible. Heath quickly swore, eyes never leaving the judge's face. A ghost of a grin flickered on his lips, as if reminding him of the promised fifteen years. 

"It was around two in the morning. I was patiently waiting for Mitchell to come to his office. I was wearing a mask, just in case. When he walked in, we exchanged a couple of of words regarding who I am and how did I get in. I used my knife by the way. After he understood that I had nothing good to offer, I sliced his throat open." 

The murmur turned into a clamor. Winnifred pressed a hand against her forehead, sweat streaming down the lower sides of her arm and on the back of her feet. Her forehead was steaming. Winnifred looked back at Johnathan. His face was pale, blue eyes serious then ever. The judge knocked to quiet down the room.

"Order! Do you know that you forgot a joker card next to Mitchell?" 

"Yes sir. I left it there." 

The cynicism and impudence were outright. Winnifred wanted to shut her ears. Please, Heath, she pleaded. Why are you doing this to yourself? 

"I said, order in the court! Why did you kill Judge Mitchell?" 

The room was suddenly quiet all by its own. Winnifred lifted her face. For a second, Heath's eyes darted at her, before returning back at the judge. 

"Because I work for Jack Browning." 

***

Winnifred felt the knot of confusion that has been following her for these five days finally blow up inside of her. Eyes wide, she stared at Heath, who was calmly taking in the uproar from the crowd. Winnifred glanced at Johnathan. He seemed to be slightly smirking, confusion clearing from his face. What the hell? Winnifred became even more confused. 

"Oh my god," Charlotte breathed next to her and harshly dug her nails into Winnifred's arm. 

"Look." The women both looked at Jack, sitting at the edge of the second row. He looked stunned. The judge angrily pounded his mallet against the desk, trying to hide the amusement on his face. 

"Order! Order in the court! Mister Browning, do you support this man's claim that he's your employee?" 

Jack slowly stood up. The hall fell quiet, eyes following him. 

"No," Jack clearly said. "That is a lie. I never hired this man." Heath, watching Jack, quietly chuckled. 

"Or so you think," he pointed out and turned back to the judge. "I was hired by Carmine Falcone, you know, the big mob dealer in Gotham?" There was a few more pounding from the judge. Heath patiently waited, in the meantime, forming the rest of his sentence. 

"...and so he hired me, and then I find out that banker Jack Browning is also in ties with Falcone. So," he turned to Jack. "In a way, you hired me." 

"I oppose," Jack coldly retorted. "I would never hire you." 

"Continue, Mister Heath," The judge said, eyes slowly shifting from Jack back to Heath. 

"How does your possible allegation to Mister Browning connect with Judge Mitchell?" 

Heath sighed and took out a small piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to some lawyer standing next to him. The lawyer startled, then, quickly glancing at the accused, cleared his throat and began reading.

"Miss Rachel Dawes, I will indeed look into the matter of Jack Browning using the city's criminality to progress his own interests. His business indeed does seem not entirely perfect. I do want to warn you that there were multiple searches in his company, conducted by your first class Lieutenant Jim Gordon." The lawyer lifted his eyes up on the judge. 

"And then he moves on to the procedures." 

"Who's he?" The judge forcefully said. The lawyer looked back down at the signature. 

"Judge William Mitchell." 

"See?" Heath reinforced. "I found this in Mitchell's office when I was doing some research on him. Never mind what, it's irrelevant. But after such a hit on my employer, I decided to show Bill where his place is in this world. And so I killed him." 

Winnifred didn't hear the mallet's pounding in the uproar. People in front of her stood up, shouting something, closing her view of Heath and Jack. As for herself, Winnifred felt strange. Now that Heath told her why he killed Mitchell, she wasn't surprised. At the depths of hopelessness, he decided to pull down his fiend with him. Someone's hand clenched her shoulder. Winnifred abruptly turned her head. Johnathan was next to her. 

"Well, ninety percent of what he said is true," he crookedly smirked, leaning down right up to her face so she could hear him. 

"Are you surprised?" Winnifred asked back. Johnathan chuckled.

"No." His eyes traveled across the room. 

"It's kind of hard to believe that Heath caused all of this. It's in his taste, yet....I guess he was too quiet for too long." 

"Johnathan," Winnifred grasped his hand. "Do you think they'll let him go?" 

Johnathan shook his head. Winnifred suddenly saw the tiredness reflecting in his features. 

"All they can do is give him a shared cell with Browning. And that'll be more than enough for Heath. It's what he was pursuing anyway." 

"Why did he do this?" Winnifred whispered more to herself than to Johnathan. 

"Could've he just let them both live?" 

"I think you're forgetting the fact that Heath worked for Falcone," Johnathan's fingers slightly tightened on Winnifred's shoulder. 

"Remember, he never mentioned how he got on Mitchell in the first place. I think Falcone forced him to do something, and after that it was pure improvisation." 

The hall finally started quieting down. Johnathan quickly looked around, before leaning in the final time. 

"Get ready. The judge will probably ask for you and your copies." Winnifred nodded. Giving her shoulder a supporting squeeze, Johnathan left back to his column. 

The people in front of Winnifred sat back down and she could finally see. Jack's face was unreadable, while Heath comfortably stretched out his legs, crossing his arms on his chest. The judge, looking tired from settling down the hall, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and crossly glanced at Heath. 

"Mister Heath? You mentioned Mister Browning's presumable ties to the criminality. Sit down, Mister Browning," he added, noticing how Jack begins to stand up. 

"You won't be left without a voice. So, Mister Heath? Do you have the evidence?" 

Heath didn't answer right away, giving Winnifred a chance to stand up.

"I do." Her voice was straight and cold. A thousand heads swiveled her direction. Winnifred felt her palms sweat, so she fixed her gaze on the judge. That one seemed befuddled. 

"Yes, miss?"

"I have the evidence regarding Mister Browning's allegations to the criminality, including Carmine Falcone," Winnifred repeated. The judge titled his head, crystal green eyes examining her. 

"Come on up, please." 

Winnifred tugged the bag out of Charlotte's hands and walked up to the pedestal. Her footsteps echoed in the rounded building. She stopped right next to Heath, trying to ignore his intent gaze. A lawyer walked her up to the Bible. Winnifred tried to hold her legs from violently shaking and put her shuddering hand over the book's leather cover. Her finger slightly traced its surface. 

"I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." Her wavering hand lowered down and violently grabbed the strap of her bag. Heath moved out of the place he was standing, leaving room for her. Winnifred wordlessly entered in, fingers slightly touching the wood. 

"What is your name, miss?" The judge gently started. 

"Winnifred Lewly, sir. I work as an accountant at Jack Browning's bank."

There was a slight buzz around the hall. Winnifred slightly lowered her head. Heath, sitting down at the bench, rubbed his palm with his fingers. His face was focused, carefully listening to her. 

"How well do you know the man next to you?" The judge nodded towards Heath. Winnifred slightly bit her lip, diligently choosing her words. 

"Quite well, sir. We were classmates in school and in college." 

"Did you expect him to murder Judge Mitchell?" Winnifred lowered her eyes. Her legs began shaking more than ever. 

"No sir." 

"Tell us about the evidence," the judge abruptly changed the subject. Winnifred took a deep inhale, going right against the oath she gave.

"I was talking with Heath the other day. He...was talking about working with the mob. In the conversation, he mentioned Browning." Winnifred paused, collecting her thoughts. 

"I found it strange that a name of a well respected banker would be mixed with Gotham's criminality, so I decided to check out on some papers. I and Charlotte Hutchinson, another accountant at Browning's place, asked for the documents from Browning's secretary. As we started looking through them, we found many strange coincidences." Winnifred fell quiet, uncertain how to explain herself.

"Can you give us an example?" The judge helped her out. Winnifred took another breath.

"Yes. The murder of business man Milden. The ousting of Foster's company. It was an arrangement between Jack and Falcone. Falcone would murder or oust out powerful businessmen, handing their businesses over to Jack, while he would provide the mob a safe account at sixteen percent." 

The judge angrily pounded his mallet, while Winnifred desperately tried to hold on her composure. 

"Do you have any legal documents on you, miss?" He hurriedly asked before the hall could go any farther. Winnifred quickly took out the copies out of her bag, shakily laying them out. 

"Only copies, sir. The actual documents are at Browning's bank in Jack's office."

"Very well, miss. However, why didn't show this evidence to the court earlier?" 

"It was four days before Mitchell's murder. I-I still wasn't sure how to present...everything." 

"I see." 

The hall was quiet. The judge quietly ordered the police to go to Browning's bank, before looking back at his papers. 

"You may sit down next to the accused, Miss Lewly. Is Charlotte Hutchinson in this room?" Charlotte quickly stood up and walked over to Winnifred was standing. Winnifred wearily sat down, the shuddering slightly stopping. Heath wasn't looking at her, slightly kneeling forward, his hands folded in front of him. Winnifred crossed her arms, trying to unnoticeably dry her sweaty palms. Charlotte calmly swore the oath, waiting for the judge to ask her. 

"Are you Miss Charlotte Hutchinson, accountant at Browning's bank?" 

"Yes sir." 

"Miss Lewly mentioned you also looking through Jack Browning's documents. Do you deny that?" 

"No sir. We looked through the documents together." 

"So you confirm that everything Miss Lewly said is the truth?" 

"Yes sir." 

"Alright, Miss Hutchinson, you may go back to your seat." 

Winnifred carefully licked her lips, wondering when she would be able to go back to her seat. The police returned, carrying a stack of papers. The hall seemed to hold their breath. The police handed them over to the judge, who began looking through them. 

"And the secretary?" He meanwhile asked. 

"He wasn't there, your justice." 

"Find him." The police obediently walked out. The judge turned the papers over, face becoming more serious. He finally looked up, sternly looking at the people in front of him. 

"These are, indeed, documents concerning Jack Browning's ties to Gotham criminality. Mister Jack Browning! Come on up." 

Jack calmly walked over. His face was unconcerned, but Winnifred could feel the cold anger rolling off of him. The lawyer quickly jumped up to him, holding the Bible. Jack glanced at him in disdain, but quickly gathered his composure, and coldly swore the oath. The judge, just as cold, looked at him from the top. 

"Mister Browning, do you deny your allegation to Carmine Falcone?" 

There was a short, tense silence. 

"No sir." 

Winnifred felt the nervous lump breathe down her threat. Heath slightly lowered his head, trying to hide his emotions. 

"Do you deny all the machinations, some stretching as far as planned murder?" 

"No sir." 

Winnifred glanced sideways at Heath. His face was in the shadows, but she thought she saw a slow grin extend on his lips. 

"Did you know about Judge Mitchell's coming investigation?" 

"No sir. This is my first time hearing it."

"So I assume his murder came to you as a surprise?" 

"Of course, sir." The judge smirked, thinking something to himself. 

"Well, gentlemen," he said, looking at the three people in front of him. "The laws are clear. Mister Heath, you will spend the rest of your life at Blackgate Prison, no parole. As for you, Mister Browning, your bank will be closed and you will serve twenty five years in prison." The mallet heavily went down. The trial was over.

***

The forest quietly ruffled its leaf curls. One, vividly green leaf tore off the tree and spiraled down until fell right up to Johnathan and Winnifred's feet. They were sitting on the lonely bench in the middle of the forest. Winnifred's face was strained, looking intently into the thicket, trying to find some branch to hold on to. Johnathan took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead.

"You'll have to find work," he quietly noticed. 

"Yeah, I'll manage." The wind ruffled her beige skirt, flanking it around her feet. Winnifred crackled her fingers, intertwining them into painful knot, trying to get rid of the bitter feeling in her head. 

"This doesn't seem real. It's as if I woke up and can't fall asleep anymore." 

"It's always like that," Johnathan tiredly replied, resting his forehead on his fist. The glasses loosely dangled in his fingers. 

"But tonight, you're going to go to bed, fall asleep. The first morning will be bad, but as you pass your day, go to bed, fall asleep, wake up, the following mornings will lose their bitterness, and in about a week, you'll feel better." 

Winnifred heavily sighed, leaning back on the bench and pressing both of her hands on her forehead. Johnathan leaned back as well, twisting the glasses in his long fingers. 

"Don't worry. This is exactly what Heath wanted." 

"For me to feel this way?" 

"Winnifred, don't be so harsh on him." 

"He killed a person," Winnifred bitterly retorted, eyes fixed on the summer leaf lying on the ground. 

"How am I supposed to feel? You're a psychologist, answer me." 

"Psychologists can't answer every question in the world," Johnathan wearily parried, slapping his glasses together and tucking them into his breast pocket.

"The two possible options for you is either to get over everything, or chew it until you mentally deteriorate your nerve cells. Just saying that you didn't lose everything." 

He stood up and offered his hand. Winnifred took it with a sigh. They silently walked over to the dormitory. It was as bleak as always. Johnathan turned on the lights and walked over to the kitchen. Winnifred took off her shoes and strolled into the living room. The desk was heaped with papers. Winnifred looked between them with fading interest, then switched on the TV. 

"As for next week's forecast, there's a ninety percent chance of violent showers and lightning." 

"Watch how next week's going to be all sunny and hot," Johnathan sarcastically commented behind her. Winnifred slightly smirked and followed him into the kitchen. There was a bottle of vodka and two little glasses next to it. Johnathan was cutting the bread, cigarette in between his teeth. 

"I don't think I'll drink today, Johnny," Winnifred smiled, sitting down. Johnathan shrugged, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. 

"I had a surgery this morning. Not that it's a good excuse." 

"How did it turn out?" Winnifred wondered, observing how Johnathan puts the bread down on a small plate and pours in himself some of the alcohol. 

"The patient died."

"Oh." Winnifred took the bread and stuffed it in her mouth. It was dry, the richness gone from it a few weeks ago.

"Why did you get so drunk on the party?" Johnathan asked, taking a sip of vodka. It took a while for Winnifred to answer. 

"I thought I saw Jack," she finally said, gulping down the bread. "I didn't want to remember Maine, so I did the most obvious thing to forget." 

Johnathan chuckled and walked over to the window. It was just noon. Winnifred played around with the empty glass. 

"When are you leaving?" 

"In two and half months." 

"Did your press conferences start yet?" 

"Yes. I'm almost there."

"Then what are you going to do? After you get your doctorate." 

Johnathan took a sip of alcohol before he answered her. 

"Probably teach at Gotham University. They have a section for phobias." 

"You?! A teacher?!" Winnifred brokenly laughed, shaking her head. The laughter somewhat helped clear her thoughts. "You hate kids!" 

"Just for the beginning," Johnathan walked over to the table, putting his hand on the back of Winnifred's chair. Winnifred leaned back, the glass still rotating in her fingers. 

"Do you think we'll see Heath soon?" 

"Not soon," Johnathan sighed out the smoke. "But not never." Winnifred lowered the glass, then stood up and made it toward the doorway. 

"Alright, I'm going to go, okay? Auntie will be worrying." 

Johnathan nodded and wordlessly walked over to the window. He heard the door close behind Winnifred. His eyes traveled outside, on the barely visible road. There was a faint sound of a vehicle, most likely a van, hovering above the tips of the pine trees. Johnathan sighed and closed the window, dropping the cigarette on the ground outside. 


	19. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Folks, this is a heavily bloody chapter (personally, I'm proud of it, but that doesn't take away the warning). You have been warned. If you want a short summary of what's gonna happen, here it is: Do you wanna know how I got these scars?

The small truck rumbled across the uneven ground. Based on the amount of loops and turns, Heat assumed they were already in Gotham. He eyed the man sitting opposite of him, chained in the same handcuffs as him. A sly grin stretched across his face. 

"It was a good joke, right Jack?" 

"Fuck you," Jack grimaced in disdain. Heath raised his eyebrows. 

"You wanted to put me behind the bars using Falcone. I'm not an idiot. So," Heath smirked, "I took your organized scheme and disorganized it. Pretty smart, huh?" 

Jack just showed him his middle finger. Heath chuckled and looked away. Suddenly, the van jerked. The two prisoners were abruptly tossed to the side. 

"What the..." Jack muttered, but he wasn't able to finish his sentence. The van crashed on the asphalt falling upside down. The light-bulb shattered into pieces, Heath was harshly thrust on his back, and everything went black. 

*** 

His eyes snapped open the next second. Cold sweat laced his forehead, streaking down his temples and onto his already damp hair. Heath tried to feel something with his palms, soaked in sweat, but he couldn't tell anything. Something simmered down his mouth. Heath slightly tasted it with his tongue. It was blood. Heath cautiously raised his hand towards his face, for the first time aware that there was glass, probably from the shattered bulb, on his face. He carefully closed his eyes and mouth and began brushing off the little glass shards. His fingers caught on one that didn't budge. The movement only made it sink in deeper. Not opening his eyes, Heath groped around the glass surface, getting a good hold on it, and yanked it off his face. A tiny rivulet of blood streamed down from the cut. Heath warily opened his eyes and carefully turned onto his stomach. His palms landed on the brushed off shards, instantly hovering above. Heath's eyes narrowed. 

"Jack?" 

No one answered. Heath pressed his cut-covered lips and carefully began sliding forward on his stomach, tentative to stand up. The shards crumpled underneath his body. Heath carefully made it to the doors and slightly pushed it open. Instantly, four rough arms pulled him out. The light harshly hit into his face, making Heath shut his eyes for a brief second. Once he opened them, he saw that he was surrounded by people with guns. Falcone was standing in front of him. 

"Ah, Mister Heath," The Roman gave a short smile. "I thought you will never make it to Gotham." 

"Yeah, the drivers weren't very fast," Heath eyed what it seemed like two dead bodies lying behind Falcone's thugs. His eyes shifted back to the mafiosi. 

"I'm not sure if I can thank you for the rescue just yet." 

"Keep your thanks," Falcone retorted, watching how his men helped Browning out of the truck. 

"Hey there, banker. My man told me you had a bad day." 

"Greetings," Jack growled, sending a loathsome glance on Heath. Something between hatred and triumph passed on his face. Falcone looked back at Heath. 

"You might wonder why I saved you with all my unsentimental character." 

"No, I don't," Heath quietly responded, glancing from side to side as he was fully aware of the two thugs standing behind him. His eyes shifted back at the man in front of him. 

"I messed up your cards, I'm sorry. But an ace is not enough when your opponent has the joker." 

Instantly, Heath harshly backwards elbowed the guy behind him, grabbing the other one's gun and incessantly firing it. Falcone dodged, averting the shots, his thugs shooting at Heath. Heath ran in the opposite direction, covering his back with the truck, garbage cans, everything that was in his way. A sudden bullet hit Heath in the leg. For a second, it blackened in Heath's eyes, but it was enough to set him stumbling on the ground. The gravel of the broken asphalt scratched his cheek as tiny, little rocks pierced into his palms. Heath scurried up, ignoring the lagging leg, and grabbed the gun. Someone fell on top of him. Heath's fingers slipped, losing his grasp on the weapon as the breath was suddenly knocked out of him. The man tugged Heath on his knees. Heath heavily breathed, watching in hatred how Falcone calmly walked up to him, little silver gun cocked in his hand. 

"Not so fast, Mister Heath. Allow me to mess up your cards." 

Heath smirked in disdain, the thug's hold choking him. 

"And that's where we always have the problem. I never allow to mess my cards." 

The thug pulled his arm even more. The cracking pain raced from Heath's wrist to his shoulder blades and neck. Heath held the wince, never averting his eyes from Falcone. The mobster smiled. 

"We shall see." 

Pain and anger almost blinded Heath's vision, but he kept his eyes on Falcone. That one turned to glance around, calling someone. Heath didn't hear, the pain echoing in his eardrums. From the blurred outline which substituted his vision, he saw that someone handed over Falcone a little silver thing. Falcone suddenly disappeared out of sight. The moment later, Jack's breath scorched the back side of Heath's neck. 

"Do you recognize this?" 

A bloodied knife with a black handle hovered in front of Heath's eyes. 

"Nicky snatched it from our clumsy police. It's still covered in Mitchell's blood," Jack quietly hissed. Heath just tilted his bursting from agony neck and spat into Jack's face. He then immediately turned back his neck, wary of snapping it right on the spot. Jack angrily swore, wiping the spit off of his face. 

"Very well." He tossed the knife to the thug in front of Heath. "Let's make you look like your favorite card." 

The thug turned to Falcone. That one wordlessly nodded. Heath felt something violently convulsing inside, realizing it was the pounding of his own heart. The blurred thug increased in size every second, before something shiny glimpsed in front of Heath's eyes. Cold metal touched the corner of his mouth, instantly collecting tiny, moisture droplets from Heath's uneven breathing. The metal slightly shook. His muscles pulsed from place to place on his arms, desperate to shake off the violent trembling of his body. The cold metal paused for a second, then slowly began pressing against the corner of his lip. Sweat dripped down on to the eyelid, clogging Heath's vision. The pressing increased, meticulously heaving on the thin strings of skin. Do it. The pounding against his temples increased, threatening to burst. Do it. The cold metal was absolutely wet now, suffocated in the rapid breathing. Do it. Do it. Do it. Cut it faster. The cold metal carefully tilted, as if seeing which angle would be better. Do it. Something barraged through the ribcage, sucking his organs in, then twisting them in its grasp. Do it, fucking do it. The first stream of blood trickled down from under the knife, running across and under the chin, tracing its tiny feet down the strained, throbbing neck...Do it, Do it, Do it.....the metal pushed harder, sending a second, faster rivulet down....it streaked down and caught the first stream, now together rolling down under the shirt's collar and the beating muscles...DO IT DO IT DO IT....the knife paused, as if uncertain to where to go.... 

"CCCCUUUUUTTTTTTT IIIIITTTTTTT!!!!" 

The knife jerked and ripped the skin. Blood gushed out with pain, filling Heath's mouth. The scream choked on blood, rushing down his throat and gurgled out back by convulsing muscles. The knife, able to make the first move, now roughly jagged through the cheek, snapping the muscles open, its handle gliding through blood. Through his fading back sense, Heath felt the grip loosen on his arm. He violently jerked, startling the people. The knife cut upwards, slicing the yet untouched skin, sending Heath back on his knees. The grip returned, now not only on his arm, but pushing down on his spine, making him kneel forward. The blood spilled out from his mouth, pattering against the broken asphalt. The knife returned back to its twisted trajectory, ripping apart the thin, barely noticeable strands. It was not rivulets anymore, it was currents, gusts of blood streaming down his neck, soaking the shirt, clinging it to the pulsing body. Sweat mixed with blood, until they became unrecognizable. The knife traveled upwards, to the cheekbones. Agony speared through the mind, body craning all by its own, shutting off all possible sensitive nerves left. Suddenly, the cold metal disappeared. A pained breath ripped off of the bloodied lips. His spine was harshly arched back, forcing the misty eye at the bright, hitting sky. The knife shook itself from blood, droplets splattering unto the face, before touching the opposite corner of his lips and yanking it open, starting everything over. The scream, shoved down the throat by rushing blood, found its way to the mind, stirring with the pounding heart, the bellowing echoes and convulses, the dull and acute senses, yet the blood still found its way to the heart of the mind. The scream thrashed from side to side, trying to avoid the blood, yet it was everywhere. Desperate, the scream started distorting, going on a higher and higher pitch, reaching out from the depths with its bloodied fingertips, twisting and coiling, until it was dark in the eyes and the laughter was unleashed. 

The knife disappeared. So did the grip. Losing his balance, Heath fell on the ground, pebbles striking against his face. Hysterical, sobbing laughter still shook his body, but it slowly faded away as the curt, abrupt breathing slowly evened out. Something cold streamed from the corner of his eyes, blurring his vision even more. Pain ripped his face, tearing him into pieces. His muscles slightly occasionally twitched through his blood drenched body. Gradually, the pebbles smoothed out under his cheek, and the next time his muscles jerked, Heath didn't feel them. 

*** 

The rocks scraped underneath his cheek. His eyelids slightly lifted onto the blurred mess instead of his vision. The muscles inside his eyes painfully convulsed, forcing his iris to focus. Slowly, the distorted vertical line cleared into a sewage pipe, the grey blur settling down in bricks. There was a heavy pounding in the back of his head. Everything below his nose was hurting. 

Heath abruptly pushed his arm into the ground, before harshly lifting himself up. It was a horrible idea. The barely connected thoughts crashed from their beams, collapsing into a burning abyss. It blackened in Heath's eyes, and he unwittingly grabbed some old crate to keep himself from falling. After a while, the black dots cleared from his vision. Heavily breathing, Heath slowly slid back on the ground, careful not to move his upper body, until his back safely touched the wall. Heath closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort, and for a few moments, he just sat there, trying to dull the pain twisting his nerve cells inside his head. His damp, crimson shirt clung to his body, uncomfortably swayed by the barely noticeable breeze. Heath tiredly opened his eyes. They slowly grazed the bloody asphalt, pebbles rolling around in scarlet dust, until his eyes hit his knife, covered in his blood, lying a meter away from him. Instantly, the sore muscles at the corners of his lips violently twitched. Heath slowly raised his hand to his face. 

The soft balls of his fingers slightly touched the crackled, bottom lip. They slowly traveled to the right, lip tracing back as they moved, until they hit something rough. A slightly crease formed between Heath's eyebrows. Carefully, his fingers felt around the coarse skin. The nails dug under it, before slowly peeling it off. Heath wordlessly grimaced. His eyes traveled down at the small piece of skin in his hand. It wasn't skin. It was dry, clotted blood. His hand darted back. A deep, uneven cut, layered in dry blood, scratched against Heath's fingers, as they moved upwards, almost as far as his cheekbones. They frantically moved to the other corner, but it was the same, uneven, half of the bloody smile. Heath slowly lowered his hand, emptiness in his head. He carefully tried to sigh, but the breath sliced against the wounded lips. The corners of his lips slightly twitched. Pain immediately flared up. Heath pulled back his lips into the original position. Pain reluctantly crawled away back into the consciousness, created and destroyed only by the mind. The corners twitched slightly more, pulling into a grin. Pain flashed, tearing through his ripped muscles. A small stream of blood riveted from his right gash, spiraling down his chin, but Heath didn't care. Pain was mind’s fancy; thus, can be controlled by the mind. His lips pulled wider and wider, until they formed into a smile, his smile. Blood was now spilling out from both gashes, agony throbbing back and forth through the muscles, but it hurts only how you imagine it would hurt. 

"Winnifred," a hoarse whisper almost rolled from his lips, not able to make it past the wound. 

"Winnifred, Winnifred, Winnifred..." Pain, furious at his stubbornness, sharply stabbed right into his stretched, agonized grin. His lips reverted back into a pained frown, blood seeping from the tense muscles. Heath heavily breathed, eyes darting back and forth. 

"Winnifred," His voice was slightly higher. The pain wasn't there as much. 

"Winnifred, Winnifred, Winnifred," Heath hoarsely whispered, voice slowly gaining volume as he adjusted the cords inside his throat. What if he screamed? 

"WINNIFRED!" 

His maniacal, piercing echo rumbled in the above sewage pipes. Blood streamed down his chin, but Heath didn't care. He could speak. He was satisfied. Heath carefully stood up, feet still slightly shaking above him. For a second, his thoughts scattered again, before quickly being recollected into an iron knot. Heath kneeled down, grabbing the knife and tucking it back into his pocket. 

*** 

An old, homeless man huddled next to a tiny bonfire inside the can, trying to warm his numb, crispy palms. His tired, dull eyes lifted upwards. The night have long stopped tiptoeing around the corners, now engulfing the alleys with deep, long strides. The old man sighed and lowered his gaze back on the fire. It sparked and crackled with its piercing bright flames, making the old man's eyes water. He lifted them up, rubbing their corners with the back of his hand. The man suddenly blinked out the tears, trying to clear his vision. A tall, dark figure walked down the alley. The shifting illuminations of red flame crossed the figure's face, and the old man's feet froze to the ground from horror. It was a young man, but half of his face was covered in dry blood. A few coals toppled from the top, releasing the bursting flame up into the night and illuminating a distorted, hellish grin carved on the young man's face. The old palms trembled. The young man wordlessly sat down at the nearby lying crates, broken glass and bottles scattered all around, just a few feet away from the old man. He kneeled down, shadows for a moment swallowing his smile, and picked up a broken shard. The young man looked into it, examining his cut lips. The shadows were too dark to tell apart his expression. However, the old man saw how he lifted his hand up to his face. Slowly, he began peeling off the dry blood, digging his nails under the clots, scathing his skin, yanking it with such force as if he wanted to jerk the smile off with it. Tiny blood droplets appeared from the exposed, raw flesh. The dry blood clots crumpled to the ground, one by one. The young man then stood up and walked across towards the old, leaking pipe. A small puddle formed underneath it, caused by rains and liquid waste tossed by the inhabitants of the upper apartments. The young man crouched down and began washing something off. The water loudly clinked against the metal in the surrounding silence. The young man stood up and, tucking his hands into his pockets, returned back to the opposite wall. The flames played on his indifferent, even handsome face. It was his horrid smile. In the uneven lighting, it seemed even more ghastly. Suddenly, the young man turned his head and looked right at the old one. The latter felt something uncomfortably turn inside him. In the darkness, the young man's eyes seemed black, bordering hollow. For a moment, the young man simply stared at the frightened bum across him, burning him with his intent gaze. Then, his lips slightly curled, wrinkles distorting his rough grin. However, he didn't say anything. The grin still on his face, the man leaned off the wall and walked into the night.


	20. Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer - Chapter 11

The Gotham Hospital was much different from the Local Hospital. Mainly because it was larger, more organized, and less apathetic towards the patients. Dr. Collins decided to test his intern in a new surrounding, and Johnathan obviously didn't oppose. 

Pulling on the surgical gloves, Johnathan quickly walked down the brightly lit hallway - another difference between the hospitals. Turning down the corner, the intern knocked open the emergency room's wide doors, quickly pulling on the mask. His breath instantly ricocheted back on him. The patient was already lying on the table, surrounded by doctors and their pure white coats. Johnathan walked up to Doctor Collins, glancing at the patient. His eyebrows traveled upwards. The man on the table was Jack Browning. 

"Browning?" Johnathan quietly inquired, not taking his eyes off the instruments he was preparing. He lifted a syringe up to his eyes, diligently filling it with anesthetic. 

"How did he get in here?" 

"It seems like some mobsters attacked the jail truck halfway to the point," Collins impatiently answered, hovering over the surgeon table. 

"The drivers were killed. Browning was found lying...well, like this, severely wounded, inside the truck. Someone found him and called the police." 

Johnathan frowned, as he tried to focus on the opioids, reaching the fifteen millilitre mark. 

"And Heath? Where was he?" 

"Gone. There was a lot of blood a few feet away from the truck, but no sight of the body." The neck of the anesthetic's bottle tipped from the round curve of the syringe. Johnathan's gaze, lowered down, becoming unreadable. Then, he looked up again, roughly taking the bottle away from the syringe. 

"Is Browning conscious?" He asked instead, walking over to the table. 

"Somewhat," Collins answered, placing on his mask. He quickly rubbed the jointed area between the forearm and lower arm with an alcohol-drenched web. 

"But we're still going to sedate him. He's young and strong. He'll manage." 

Johnathan slightly smirked into his paper mask and, tilting the syringe at an angle, inserted the needle into the vein. Browning's eyes became murky. Johnathan took the knife and walked over to the other side of the table. Browning's entire chest was gashed, wounds reaching to the core. There were a few lumps bulging the skin, indicating an open rupture in the ribs. Collins calmly cut the skin above the rupture, inspecting the broken bones. 

"Apply the casts here, Johnny," he quietly instructed, moving the light closer down. Johnathan wordlessly obeyed. His gloves became stained in blood as he carefully fasted the broken bones. He wasn't thinking about the broken bones. He was thinking about the casts. He knew the trust rewarded by Collins. He also knew that if he, just a little bit, shifts the casts, Browning, after some period of time, will feel pain, depending on how tightly Johnathan puts the cast. It will wear away, shift, whatever, yet the bones would slip out, back into their fracture. Was he worth it? 

Johnathan put on another cast, as Collins stitched the skin above. There was certainly no reason to save Browning, after all what's been done. Johnathan glanced up on Collins. He was focused on stitching up the upper wounds. Johnathan lowered his gaze back down. His warm breath softly landed on his cheeks as sweat. The white, pearly bones glistened at him, anticipating his next move. The same, white, pearly cast gently wrapped around them, right on the break. However, one crack remained, waiting for the right moment to collapse. 

*** 

Winnifred slowly trode down the dusty roads, the plains ruffling on her right and her left. Her hands were in the pockets of her beige trench coat, sweat tricking down her line of health. Billy was wordlessly walked next to her, hand likewise folded inside the wide pockets of his pants. 

"What else did you hear?" Winnifred quietly asked, eyes passing over the dusty rocks on the road. Billy sighed and looked into the clear, cloudless sky. 

"Jacky is granted a compassionate release due to his severe conditions." 

"Nonsense," Winnifred's shook her head, not looking up from the ground. 

"I'm just telling what I heard, dear," Billy shrugged. Winnifred pressed her lips together in mild irritation, finally lifting her gaze upwards. 

"And Heath?" 

"Gone." Winnifred lowered her eyes, trying to ignore the instant shudder in her mind. Gone...where? 

"Hey," Billy wrapped his arm around her shoulders, trying to catch her gaze. 

"It's gonna be sweet. Heathie's okay, he always is. He's probably roaming around Gotham trying to figure out how the hell he's gonna return here without being dragged to jail." 

Winnifred smirked, finally cracking a smile. Tilting her head back, she finally allowed herself to relax in Billy's reassuring grip. 

"You sure have a way of comforting women," she sarcastically joked. Billy quietly laughed, bringing a cigarette up to his mouth. 

"Maybe. We'll see if that date with Lottie works out." 

"She's going with Sammy, genius." 

"Fuck. Well, guess I'm going with you then." 

"Keep wishing." 

"Howdy, youngsters!" 

Billy and Winnifred looked to their right. Old Herbert was gesturing them over into the field. A stick and some rags was in his hands. 

"Have some time to spare, would ya? Have a'old scarecrow to hang up, why I ain’t minding some extra hands!" 

"C'mon," Winnifred tugged Billy by his hand, who obediently ventured with her into the field. 

"Yes, Mister Herbert?" 

"William, you place the stick into that patchy soil, while you Freddie can decorate the crow." 

Billy obediently sank the stick firmly into the soil, propping it up with wires held down by spikes, while Herbert roped another long branch across, forming a cross. Winnifred quickly tossed the black fabric over the scarecrow, finalizing it with Herbert's straw hat. The three of them stepped aside, admiring their work. 

"Scares the shit even out of me," Billy quietly noticed. 

The wind tossed the black fabric, thrashing over the rugged stick, its branches wavering like fragile fingers. 

*** 

Johnathan was tiredly wiping the instruments when Collins called him over. 

"Johnny?" His voice was concerned, bordering extremely worried. 

"Yes?" 

"Call the drug recovery sector, now!" 

Johnathan dropped his syringe in surprise and grabbed the phone hanging one the wall, quickly calling the group. His eyes traveled towards Browning. His skin and nails contained a blueish hue, the heart beat lines on the computer steadily decreasing with rapid speed. Overdose. 

The drug recovery arrived a minute after Johnathan called them. Being an intern and a psychologist, consequently classified useless, he was put outside the doors. Johnathan didn't mind, being more concerned with the Browning's condition. He perfectly remembered that he did not pour more than fifteen millilitres into that syringe. Yet all the symptoms clearly pointed on opioid overdose. Tucking his hands into his surgical coat's pockets, Johnathan thoughtfully walked down the deserted hallway. Suddenly, he abruptly turned around and quickly walked the opposite direction, grabbing Jack Browning's papers as he passed the emergency room doors. Hurriedly running down the stairs, Johnathan knocked and jerked open a small door implanted in the wall. He entered a dark room, illuminated by the light of computers. 

"Hello, is the blood testing conducted here?" 

"Yes," a medium height man with blonde hair walked over to him. "What do you want?" 

"Do you have the blood test for Jack Browning, arrived around five hours ago?" 

"Katie," the man turned his head towards a woman sitting in front of a computer. 

"Check for Jack Browning, please." 

"Yes, Timmy," the woman nimbly moved her mouse, scanning the list of records. 

"He's a type O." 

"Check his blood for any opioids," Johnathan impatiently ordered. 

"The sooner the better." 

The blond man turned back to Johnathan. 

"We will inform you as soon as we get it." 

"Thank you," Johnathan shortly nodded and exited the room. 

"There you are," Collins grumbled once Johnathan appeared in his eyesight. 

"Where the hell were you?" 

"Checking the blood analysis. I swear, I did not over-pour the anesthetic," Johnathan added, seeing Collins's skeptical eyebrow lift. 

"So you think he was drugged before he got here?" 

"I do. Besides, it was an emergency. No one had time checking Browning's blood content, considering he was abundantly losing it when he was brought here. Is he alive by the way?" 

"Oh yeah. We were lucky, managed to get some drugs out of him." 

Johnathan nodded, thinking something to himself. Collins sighed, looking at his watch. 

"Alright, Browning was moved to the third ward. You're watching him, okay?" 

"Yes, Doctor." Collins, curtly clapping the intern on the shoulder, walked past him. Johnathan rubbed his forehead, thinking how in the world he would spend his evening, before retreating to the third ward. It was empty, apart from Browning. Johnathan quickly took the measurements, then sat down on a table across the bed. He started charting out different brain diagrams and fear analysis, eyes occasionally darting upwards at the patient. 

Night was always the loudest in the hospitals. It was counter-intuitive, one would think that the staff is quiet at night. However, one forgets that there is drunk driving during the night, broken motorcycles with their gangster bikers, alcoholic intoxication from a crazy party, and the various assaulted by freaks with knives. 

Johnathan listened to the hurried scurrying of the nurses outside, similar to frightened, furry mice scurrying across the feline-inhabited living room. Undisturbed, he wrote out the formulas for the possible sublimation of a solid chemical into gas. There was a soft knock on the door. Johnathan startled and quickly stood up, opening the door. The young woman from the blood analysis was waiting outside with a folder of documents in her hand. 

"Good evening, Miss...Katie, right?" Johnathan greeted her in a hushed voice. Katie smiled. 

"They call me Freckles in the department." 

Johnathan allowed himself to smile. "Do you have the documents for me?" 

"Yes," she moved in the documents towards him, allowing him to look. 

"You were correct. His blood did contain an opioid, heroin precisely." 

"Heroin?" Johnathan lifted his eyebrows. "Alright, I'll inspect it. Thank you very much." He politely nodded to her, quietly closing the door. His eyes feverishly traveled across the paper. Then, they looked at Browning, peacefully sleeping. Laying down the document on the table, Johnathan looked through Browning's folder, fingers flipping through various forms and doctor recommendations. He stopped at X-ray photos of the wounds, slowly taking them out. At the first look, they looked like any normal wound made by a knife. Johnathan frowned. 

The wounds were abnormal. They were deep enough to cause some blood loss, yet not deep enough to leak him out completely. Also, the ribs seemed too perfectly broken to look like an approximated, rage-sponsored smash. Johnathan glanced at Browning. That one stirred and mumbled something. Johnathan lowered the papers down on the table and walked up to the bed. Browning's eyes were slightly open, point pupils feverishly scanning the room. 

"Where am I?" He coarsely asked. Johnathan cracked his knuckles inside of his coat pockets, examining Jack's face in the dark. 

"In the hospital. Apparently, you were attacked by thugs on your way to jail. They sliced you around, as well as breaking the ribs." 

"They went that far? I thought they just cut the skin," Browning said at loss, looking down at his wounded body. Johnathan quietly smirked, wondering how much Jack would reveal tomorrow morning, clear of the drugs' influence. Probably this was the most he'll get. 

"Rest, Mister Browning," Johnathan advised. "You'll be questioned as soon as you're better. Don't forget that you are, still, under those charges." 

Johnathan couldn't' see Jack's face in the dark, but by the way the sheets ruffled, he understood that Browning uneasily shifted. Johnathan walked back to the desk, trying to seem uninterested and picked up his diagrams of the medulla. 

Johnathan was replaced by Richard, still shaking from the train ride and grumbling about the stupidity of intern training outside the local hospital. The psychologist tiredly placed the keys down at the front desk, slightly nodding to the receptionist in adieu. 

The cold, four o'clock Gotham air slightly revived him. Tucking his numbing hands into his pockets, Johnathan randomly walked down the sleepy street. His eyes loosely traveled across the buildings, taking in the creative titles and forgetting them the instant after. He turned around the corner. Gotham Police Department stared back at him. Johnathan absently passed it. A sudden thought crossed him. Johnathan hesitantly slowed down, before abruptly turning around and quickly walking back to the department. 

The police was even more sleepy than the street. Warily eyeing the officers passing by, Johnathan walked up to the reception desk. 

"Excuse me, I need the location of the accident where convicted Jack Browning was attacked by mobsters." 

The obese police officer raised his pig-like eyes on the restless young man. 

"What did you say again?" 

"Where was convicted banker Jack Browning attacked by mobsters yesterday while traveling to Black Gate," Johnathan impatiently repeated. 

"Propose your reasons," the police man lazily stretched. Johnathan pressed his lips, fingers clutching inside his pockets. He wordlessly took out his wallet and placed out a wad of green paper. The pig eyes slightly widened, before quickly darting back and forth the room and sliding the dollars down the counter. 

"Very well, sir. Follow me." 

Jonathan obediently followed the guy to a small office. The cop opened the door and stuck his head inside. 

"Jerry?! Where did yesterday's case happen?!" 

"Yesterday's?! The one with the dead banker?! 

"Yeah, that one!" 

"Hold on a sec....In that shitty alley between Warren Street and Hailey Avenue." 

The cop pulled his head out of the doorway and turned to Johnathan. 

"Did you get your answer, sir?" 

"Yes, thank you," Johnathan shortly answered, quickly turning around and walking out. He hurriedly crossed the street, mentally already having the plan out where the alley was supposed to be located. Between Warren Street and Hailey Avenue... that was extremely close to the hospital. A perfect escape route. Johnathan felt twisted adrenaline turn inside his stomach. His eyes darted upwards on the road sign. Hailey Avenue. Johnathan glanced on the sign across it. Warren Street. The eyes traveled to the left of both of them. 

A narrow, little alley stretched in a thin line, a small passageway between the file of buildings. Johnathan, sensing the suspense trapping his other feelings in its heavy deadfalls, walked towards the alley. Even the air seemed different inside. Not the fresh, morning flavor which bites and melts on the tip of the tongue, but the oppressive, acidic taste of rust. Johnathan slowly walked down the alley, eyes carefully traveling along the graffitied, brick walls, the cheap clothing hanging down the wires from the windows of the above apartments, the tiny, green shards stuck in between the cracks of the uneven asphalt. Nothing seemed to change as he walked in these alleys when he was in high school. His feet slightly tripped over a damp skirt lying in the dust, fallen from the clothesline. A vibration inside his pocket let him know of his phone. Johnathan, not stopping, took out his small cellphone, raising it up to his ear. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi, Johnny, this is Doctor Collins. Where are you right now?" 

"Here, meaning Gotham. Why?" 

"I need you in the local hospital at seven. Clear?" 

"Yes, Doctor," Johnathan lit up a cigarette, eyes brushing the ground. It was darker, reflecting a reddish color. The paper wrapper of the cigarette felt dry against the lips. 

"Did Browning wake up?" Johnathan inquired, walking around what it seemed to be the evaporated version of a blood puddle. 

"Yes he did. He even told us what happened." 

"Really?" Johnathan frowned, letting out the cooled smoke out of his mouth. It hung in the air, before fading away. 

"And what did he say?" 

"Not much. He said that the van was suddenly overturned, knocking him out. He said he never really came back to his senses, except once. He heard muffled voices and a slight sting in his forearm, as well as gradually losing his connection with his limbs and feelings, eventually knocking him out." 

What a well planned recital. Johnathan held himself from smirking by inhaling another portion of smoke. 

"Did he say anything else?" 

"No, just questioned about Heath. He was kind of quiet after he heard that he was gone." Too add drama of course. Johnathan shook his head. His eyes fell back at the blood stain on the ground. 

"Alright. I'll be home at seven. Will you stay here?" 

"We'll see. See you later." 

"Goodbye." Johnathan hung up, sliding his phone into his pocket. There were no more bloodstains after that one, but Johnathan still continued down the alley, which became more and more desolate with each step, bums adorning it at the walls. Johnathan's eyebrows knitted together as one bum caught his attention. Not the old man himself, but something a few feet away from him. Johnathan slowly walked up, tilting his head, before crouching down and picking it up. Dry blood. 

Johnathan's eyes traveled upwards. The alley stretched farther in front of him. Johnathan stood up and hurriedly continued walking, pace increasing with each step. The old, dirty houses grew closer together, broken glass increasing with each step, asphalt literally carpeted in cigarette stubs. He turned the corner, running into a dead end. 

Johnathan dumbly stared at the brick wall. 

"Damn it!" 

The stray kitten, rubbing its little muzzle with its already hardened paw, frighteningly jumped off the crate and ran away into the building behind it. Johnathan angrily passed his hand through his hair, before glancing at his watch. 6:45. Johnathan crossly bit into his short cigarette, burning his tongue on the flame, before tossing it on the ground in irritation. Looking around one last time, Johnathan sighed and, tucking his hands into his pockets, turned away and slowly trudged into the opposite direction. 

The small kitten hopped, front paws pulling up the lower ones, up the filthy staircase to the second floor, before gently scratching the third door and loudly meowing in its quiet, high voice. After three minutes, the door opened, and the kitten happily ran in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! Last chapter of Part 2: Our Last Deadly Summer! Hope you enjoyed the read, I know it was more action-packed than Part 1! As custom, I am going on a three-day break, so... whoever's reading this, hold tight! And since I've mentioned you guys.....thank you, thank you, thank you to whoever is reading this. I've given up on comments at this point (since I was never a comment-magnet in the first place, ;) ), but.... reading and going with the story is what matters, right? So, to my dear readers, big thank you. See you in a little bit!


	21. Part 3: Autumn - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! The lack of reviews ain't stopping this fanfiction from updating ;) So, we're starting a new part! This chapter is shorter than usual, but that's because I thought the content that follows after doesn't really fit into this chapter! So, hope you enjoy and, as usual, thanks for reading!

Heinrich rubbed the kitten's scrawny back as it wrapped around his bony ankle. Straightening up, he resumed his task of carrying the frying pan into the living room, well, at least the surrogate of a living room. 

"Here you go, lad. Fried potatoes enough for both of us." 

The young man sitting across the old, wooden, round table lifted his eyes on him and didn't say anything. Simply pulled Heinrich's worn shirt closer over his bare chest. Heinrich eyed the small washtub standing in the corner of the room. A bloodied, grey shirt floated in it. Heinrich looked back at the young man and placed the pan on the table. The young man still didn't take the dirty fork next to him. Despite his horrid appearance, he was polite. Good boy. Heinrich chuckled and, sitting down, took his fork and sent the charcoal potatoes into his mouth. The young man's rigid shoulder muscles slightly loosened, and he too took his fork and pinned a piece of potato on it. 

They ate in silence. 

Heinrich quickly chopped the potatoes with his teeth, occasionally glancing up at the young man. The scars on his cheeks eerily moved in rhythm with the moving of the jaw, wrinkles tearing through the wounded flesh. 

"Who decorated you like this?" Heinrich asked, pointing at the scars with his fork. The brown eyes quickly darted upwards, before lowering back down again. 

"Not want to speak?" Heinrich smirked. The little kitten rubbed against his leg. 

"What do you want, Lena? Here, eat, you tiny beast." Heinrich tossed the little kitten a piece of the potato. Lena nimbly caught it and gnawed it with her tiny teeth. 

"Lena?" 

Heinrich looked up in surprise at the coarse voice. The young man was looking at the kitten, before shifting his gaze at the Heinrich. A small light of curiosity shimmered in his eyes. 

"Short from Magdalena," the old man pointed out. "My son wanted to call her Maggie, but I thought it was more of a dog's name, and Lena ain't a dog, ain't she?" 

The young man didn't answer, quietly calling the kitten with a whistle. Quickly shifting her small paws, the kitten, Lena, ran up to him and jumped into his cupped hands. The young man picked her up, stroking her between her ears. Lena lowly purred in satisfaction, cuddling in his warm hands. 

"I don't have the money to pay you for the night," the young man said in his strange voice, bordering low and high pitch at the same time. 

"Only for today's day." 

"Will you be able to go out for work soon?" Heinrich raised his eyebrows. The young man's eyes shifted from the frying pan's handle, to the singed stain on the wooden table, before resting on Lena's forehead. 

"I can't guarantee anything." 

Heinrich thought for a second. 

"Listen, boy, I need a worker for my job. How about you work for me without pay, and I'll provide you with a room and food?" 

The young man wordlessly stroked the kitten. 

"Sure." 

"You're not even going to ask me what's my job?" Heinrich asked in surprise. 

The young man shook his head. Heinrich shrugged and finished the remaining potatoes on the pan. 

"Very well," he stood up. "Follow me." 

Lena jumped from the young man's arms as he shoved back the chair, and, holding on the shirt over his shoulders, followed Heinrich. That one squeezed in through the packed hallway and opened one of the two opposite doors. 

"Here you go, a room for rent, as you asked for. Bathroom at the end of the hallway," the young man slanted his eyes towards the door at the opposing wall,"everything you need is inside the closet. Make yourself comfortable." 

The young man silently turned around. Heinrich startled in surprise, but the lad was back in a moment, the bloodied washtub in his grip. He wordlessly walked into the room, slightly glancing at Heinrich. That one took the hint and quickly closed the door behind him. Slightly chucking and shaking his head, Heinrich walked back to the living room and began cleaning off the table. 

Heath's eyes traveled around the room. The wallpaper was crackling off the uneven walls, the furniture cramped together. The small, round carpet gave off a faint odor of cat waste. However, there was a narrow, glass balcony with escape stairwells. Heath lowered the washtub next to the wardrobe, then shrugged off the man's shirt. Placing it on the wardrobe, Heath walked around and looked into the mirror, a whole, actual mirror, not some glass shard of a broken Heineken bottle. His scars grinned back at him. Heath tasted bitterness on his tongue and turned away. His eyes spotted a pen and some pieces of paper on the nightstand. Heath crouched down on his knees and, hunching his shoulders from the uncomfortable position, gripped the pen. It immediately became layered in sweat. For a moment, Heath stared at the paper with blank eyes, a vein pulsing on his temple. 

_Dear Freddie,_

_I'm alright. How are you? Do you know what I was thinking in the courtroom? I was thinking how surreal it all looked, I caused everything myself. Myself._

_Pretty astounding._

_Where's Jack?_

_I'll come back._

Heath paused, fingers thoughtfully tracing the deep cut on his left cheek. Should he tell her? Heath pressed his lips and lowered his hand into his pocket. His fingers felt the pack of cigarettes. Interesting. At least they left that intact. Heath took out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. He swiftly clicked his lighter, lighting on the cigarette. Instantly, piercing pain sliced through the corners of his lips, followed by an acidic taste in his mouth. Heath immediately spat out the cigarette, saliva streaming down his chin. The cigarette dropped on the paper, scattering ashes, the tiny fire extinguishing, then rolled off the desk. Heath, trying to ignore the jerking, hurting lips, kneeled down on the floor. His fingers feverishly tore the cigarette apart, scattering the nicotine on the palm. It wasn't nicotine. White powder seeped though Heath's fingers, along with some shreds of nicotine. Heath stared at it, before jerking out the cigarette pack out, spilling all the cigarettes on the floor. His eyes madly darted from one cigarette to another as he ripped them open, scratching off the wrap. In a minute, all the cigarettes were destroyed. Heath silently stared at the shredded pieces, white powder glistening on the floor. His scathed flesh twitched in agony. Heath angrily crumpled the two halves of the last cigarette in his fist, muscles pulsing through his flesh. Those sons of bitches tried to poison him with cyanide. Heath furiously grabbed the torn cigarettes from the floor, not even trying to get all of them, and tossed them out the window. Heath slowly turned to the mirror. His scars were swollen, even more distorted then before. Heath sighed and lowered down on the bed, dropping his head into his hands, clutching his hair with his fingers. The unfinished letter lay on the night table, forgotten and unwanted. 

*** 

"So, Miss Lewly," the doctor glanced at her above the papers. "Take aspiprofen every time you have an attack. Or else I am not aware of the effects." Winnifred picked her gaze up from her hands, clenched on her lap. 

"Is it really that bad?" She quietly asked. 

"I'm afraid so," Doctor Collins sighed. "Your genetic distortion was in norm for a while, but I'm afraid it passed the line. Nothing much. Just bite the pill down." Winnifred nodded, then stood up. 

"Thank you. Is intern Crane here today?" 

The doctor glanced up up back at her. A slightly visible smirk sprinted across his lips. 

"No, he's in city today." 

"Alright. Thanks again." Winnifred tightly smiled and walked out the room, holding the door out for Collins to pass. He quickly followed her out, but walked in the opposite direction. Winnifred tucked her her hands into pockets, feeling the box of medicine he gave her. Her eyes apathetically drifted on the walls. A small crease formed above her eyebrows, and she halted. Winnifred slowly read the direction sign. Medical wards. Third floor, rooms 307-365. Winnifred thoughtfully passed her tongue over the right side of her gum, then abruptly turned around, pace increasing as she hurried up the stairs. She slowed down when the desired numbers appeared before her. Winnifred bit her lip, glancing from one side to the other, trying to catch the familiar name. 307. Lyman. 308. Cartwright. 309. Golden. Irritation involuntarily pushed her pace to a higher degree, forcing her eyes to search faster. 310. Norton. 311...312...313....this is so stupid, is she seriously going to go through all three hundred sixty five wards, well, of course, let's just hope Browning is in 324 instead of 364.....Winnifred harshly stopped. 318. Browning. Winnifred chewed on her crackled lips, before quietly knocking on the door and looking inside. 

"Excuse me...." her voice trailed off as a blonde nurse looked up from her desk. Jack, lying in the bed, silently raised his eyebrows. 

"Yes?" The nurse asked in amusement. "Who are you?" Winnifred glanced at Jack. 

"I-I'm to Mister Browning, if it's okay?" The nurse opened her mouth to obviously object, but Jack hastily interrupted her. 

"It's alright, Gladys, I'm fit to handle visitors. You may go." The nurse shrugged and stood up. Winnifred wordlessly backed away from the door, letting her pass. Then, she walked in and, not looking at Jack, closed the door behind her. For a moment, she studied the round, gleaming door knob, choosing her words. Her fingers slipped off the knob and maneuvered into her pockets as Winnifred silently walked up to the bed. It was strange seeing Jack confined, dependable on medical instruments and nurses' attention. He was examining her too, clearly aware of his unusual condition, yet that did not stop the usual overconfident tone in his eyes. Winnifred's lips slightly tensed. 

"How are you feeling?" 

Jack slightly moved his shoulder, eyes flickering away from her face. 

"Getting better." 

Winnifred pursed her lips, thinking something to herself. She glanced behind her shoulder, spotting a chair next to the wall. Grabbing it by its back, Winnifred dragged it over to the bed and sat down, elbows slightly resting on the white linen. 

"Jack, we need to talk." 

"About what?" Jack turned his face to her, amusement splattered on his features. 

"If you would mind clarifying yourself, please do." 

Winnifred held herself from snapping back. 

"Jack, where is Heath?" She quietly asked, hunching her shoulders, leaning in. 

"And how am I supposed to know?" Jack hissed, moving his body to get a better position. "God, Winnifred, you're asking such things that are obvious to an eight year old." 

"Because eight year old's don't doubt things," Winnifred retorted. "They start doing that at eleven." 

"So you mean to say that you don't believe what I said to the police?" Jack sarcastically grinned. 

"No," Winnifred sharply answered, keeping her voice low. Her fingers clenched the white sheets as she tried to hold in her irritation. 

"And given your record of lying to the law, I have a valid reason of doubting you." 

"Listen," Jack's eyes furiously drilled into hers. "I told the truth. The van crashed when we were passing Warren Street, I got knocked out, and then I woke up already in the hospital. Does that convince you?" 

Winnifred leaned back, her narrowed eyes skeptically searching Jack's face. 

"Well?" He asked in irritation. Winnifred suddenly smirked. 

"I do wonder what the thugs did to you, Browning. You really don't seem to mind that you're talking to a person who messed up your cards." 

For a moment, Jack looked startled, before his lips sliced into a dangerous grin. 

"I'm just being polite. After all, this wasn't the first time we messed up each other cards." 

Winnifred wordlessly stood up and made her way towards the door. 

"Get better," she shot on the way. Jack's barely audible chuckle followed her out. Winnifred closed the door in frustration and fast-walked down the hallway. She stopped in the middle of the staircase. Browning said Warren Street. How the hell would he know the street name if he was always inside the truck? Winnifred tilted her head as she slowly resumed down the stairs. Very strange indeed. She should ask Margaret to maim her a bit. Maybe she'll start remembering things she never saw.


	22. Part 3: Autumn - Chapter 2

"Did you ever handle weaponry?" Heinrich asked, tossing a pistol to Heath. He nimbly caught it, quickly looking it over with his eyes. 

"Yes." 

"What kind?" 

Heath glanced up at the man. 

"Knife." 

Heinrich smirked and took out a rifle, loading it with patrons. 

"Knife, you say? Is that why you're so fancily cut out?" 

Heath's eyes darkened, but his swollen lips formed into a crooked smile. 

"Close, but not quite." 

Heinrich quietly chuckled, amused by the young man's incredible patience, and sat down in front of him, taking the pistol out of his hand. 

"So. This is a 9mm pistol. Explaining the main principle. See this button over here?" Heinrich pointed to the button on the side of the hand grip with his coarse, worn off middle finger. 

"This ejects the magazine." 

Heinrich pressed the button and the magazine nimby popped out into his hand. The old man searched in his pockets, before taking out a few golden bullets. 

"Ammunition, bull, cap, whatever you want to call it, but flat side in." Heinrich quickly loaded the magazine until it was full. He glanced up at the young man. 

"Re-insert the magazine." Heinrich briskly moved the magazine upwards back into the gun. There was a clicking sound. 

"Your pistol won't shoot unless you disengage the safety." The old man slid down the safety lever next to the upper rear of the gun. 

"Pull the slide to its rearmost end with your palm," Heinrich swiftly jerked the slide, "That will release the chamber a round." Heinrich flipped the gun, now holding its muzzle and handed it over to Heath. The young man thoughtfully took the weapon, jerking the safety back up then down to understand the concept. He lifted his brown eyes on the old man. 

"Do you want me to work as a sniper or something?" 

Heinrich laughed, Magdalena purring at his feet. 

"Close, but not quite." 

*** 

Johnathan stared back at the brick wall. There was something more to it. Johnathan looked around, eyes searching the shivering houses that stretched their crackling limbs into the sky. Heath could not have gone far. He couldn't have. Johnathan's eyes fell on a shaggy poster hanging from one of the balconies on the second floor. ROOMS FOR RENT SECOND FLOOR APARETMENT 14. Johnathan's eyes traced the sign down to the rusty door with a cat trap on the bottom, swinging loosely on its hinges. Johnathan slowly walked over to it and warily knocked it forward. The door creakily swung open. The lower floor was damp, saturated with the stuffed, polluted smell of burnt oatmeal. The lamp weakly blinked in the darkness. Johnathan passed his tongue over his teeth, taking in the surroundings, and, unimpressed, quickly ran up the stairs, stopping at the second flight. He did not even have to read the fading numbers on the doors; the poster ROOMS FOR RENT told it all. Johnathan eyed the shattered glass over the doorbell and knocked. The door creaked open. A medium height, scrawny man in his fifties, face infected with stubble, looked back at Johnathan. 

"Yes?" He gruffly asked. 

"The sign said you had rooms for rent?" Johnathan inquired, eyes traveling behind the man's shoulder. 

"Not anymore." The old man was about to close the door, when Johnathan's hand firmly grasped its side. 

"Then I would like to meet the person renting the room." 

The old man clearly did not like his tone, nor the firmness of the fingers tightly clasped around door. He wordlessly stepped aside, letting Johnathan through. His blue eyes wandered around the apartment. It was stacked with rubbish of varying degrees: metal crates, wooden carts, fishing hooks, scattered newspapers, trash sacks, a broken canoe along the wall, badminton rackets, a few bowling balls, empty cigarette packs, a cabinet with broken, glass doors, tightly sealed boxes, sowing kit, kettles, dusty porcelain figurines squeezing off its shelves. A torn magazine page shivered under Johnathan's feet. He warily walked down the narrow hallway, carefully avoiding the crates with paint stacked on top of each other and knocked open the door on the left. The room was bare. White powder glimmered through the wooden planks. Moth eaten, grey curtains slightly shook in the smoke-ridden breeze. Heath was hunched on the bed, back to Johnathan. 

"Heath?" 

Heath turned around. Johnathan's hand, resting on the door knob, slightly jerked. Raw, swollen flesh, messily scattered on the cheeks, widely grinned back at him. Heath clicked his tongue. 

"That bad, huh?" 

Johnathan raised his eyebrows. 

"You have cyanide on the floor." 

The distorted corners of the lips crooked into a smirk. 

"Always so diligent." 

Johnathan silently took the invitation and sat down next to Heath on the bed. That one tensely rubbed his palms together, looking down. 

"How did you find me?" 

"I would be a pretty bad psychologist if I can't use my logic to find the missing piece in my client's story." 

Heath leaned back, staring at the billowing curtains. Johnathan slightly pressed his lips together. His eyes fell on the letter, neatly sitting on the night table. 

"May I?" 

"What? Yes, of course." 

Johnathan took the short letter, eyes quickly skimming the uneven words. To a simple reader, it was just a quick jotting down of reminders. To a psychologist, it was just a quick spilling out of helpless, not fully opened anger. Johnathan glanced at Heath. 

"To answer your question, Jack is currently in a hospital, severely drugged and maimed." 

"What?" Heath jolted. His eyes scorched into Johnathan's face. "Maimed?" 

"By the thugs," Johnathan inaudibly sighed. "They numbed his senses with heroin, broke his ribs and sliced his chest, and placed left him at a relatively close difference from the hospital. A young lad, probably also a thug, caught the police's attention-" 

"And?" Heath coarsely asked. 

"And Jack gets a compassionate release." 

Heath stood up, walking over to the balcony. Johnathan observed how the muscles on his neck violently pulse against the skin in an abrupt rhythm. Heath looked down. Slowly, he passed his tongue over his teeth, sensing the cool, inner surface of upper lip. Lena shyly trotted into the room. Warily looking at Johnathan, she jumped over to Heath and curled her nimble body over his leg. 

"Those guys decided to make me more happy than I already am," Heath quietly commented, muscles slightly tensing from the tickling fur against his ankle. 

"Then they switched my Marlboro on to cyanide-coated, Falcone produced Marlboro." 

Johnathan stood up with a sigh, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

"Will you stay here?" 

"For a while." Lena curled up on Heath's boot, little tail covering her pink snout. 

"Earn some money, then I'll see what I can do." 

"What do you want me to tell Freddie?" 

"I already told her everything she needs to know," Heath glanced down at the letter, then at Johnathan over his shoulder. He smiled, wrinkles tearing the flesh. 

"Won't I make a great psychological experiment? How a person recovers from a....an unusual experience?" 

"Oh yes, the patient playing cat and mice with the doctor," Johnathan sarcastically retorted. Irony seeped through his tone. 

"Thanks, but I'll pass. I have enough freaks to deal with right now, " Johnathan shrugged, trying to hold back the bitterness. Heath's shoulders straightened, yet he did not turn around. Johnathan sighed and made his way towards the door. 

"Get better. You know, you're always welcome in our circle." 

"I am not a freak." 

Johnathan turned around. Heath glanced back at him, anger twisting in the wrinkles. This sincere, frank anger over a word seemed almost childish. Johnathan suddenly felt like laughing. 

"Never were, never will be. You know what I meant." 

Heath watched Johnathan leave, before looking down at the bed. He knew what Johnny meant. And yet the word scorched him to the core, eating away the newly forming blood crust until fresh, scarlet blood drops dripped down. 

*** 

Winnifred warily looked down the streets. She has been coming back to Gotham for four days now, trying to find the right streets. And of course, she did not take into account that there are multiple Warren Streets in multiple regions of Gotham, and that there were even Gotham slums, or the island, with.... at least three Warren Streets. 

Winnifred nervously cracked her fingers. The subway speedily tore her towards these Gotham slums. Four days were less than enough time to get used to the frightening, towering skyscrapers, buildings, cars, and faces. The gloomy slums scarily increasing behind the windows did not promise anything good either. The subway jerked and stopped. Winnifred felt the unpleasant taste of vomit on her tongue. 

The grim, taut houses followed Winnifred with their eyes. Winnifred lowered her eyes down, trying not to attract anyone's attentions. Lonely cars passed the road, yet Winnifred didn't want to hitch one. The drivers alone looked....dubious. 

Winnifred glanced at her map of Lower Gotham. The streets were listed all right. Winnifred looked to her sides. Two alleys stretched right and left. Seventh Avenue. Bella Street. Both gone from the map. Winnifred angrily stuffed the useless piece of paper into her pocket and resumed her walking. The polluted air clogged her throat, stretching its strained blanket over her lungs. Winnifred coughed blood into her palm. Damn. She quietly cursed under her breath and halted. Stepping back to her wall, graffiti staring back, Winnifred rummaged through her purse, trying to find the box of pills. She accidentally yanked it too much, causing the purse and its contents to spill on the ground. Winnifred hastily lowered down, picking up the handkerchief, pocketbook, and pill box off the slightly red asphalt and straightened back up. Quickly biting the pill in half, Winnifred thoughtfully observed the graffiti on the brick wall. It looked something on the mix of SMILE in pink FUCKING LIFE in yellow and WELCOME, GUYS, FREE ROAD TO HELL!!! in red, the exclamations points in orange. There was also a weird caricature. Winnifred shrugged and swallowed the pill. 

"Miss?" Winnifred almost dropped her purse. A dark auburn haired, young lad was smiling back at her. 

"Yes?" Winnifred cautiously responded. 

"Are you looking for something?" Stalker. 

"No," Winnifred curtly answered and started quickly walking in the other direction. Carrot Boy hastily caught up with her. 

"Hey, miss, I know you." 

"Magnificent. You have further alienated yourself from me." Winnifred tightly fixed her beret with one hand, eyes searching for a gate away. 

"Miss. There is someone who wants to see you." Winnifred slightly slowed down. This person can mean everything to her - either good or bad. 

"Who I wonder?" She instead played. "You?" 

The Carrot Boy delicately blushed. "No, miss. Does the name Falcone say anything to you?" 

Damn it. They caught her. 

"No." Winnifred turned the corner, slamming right into a dead end. Shit. 

"Strange. Didn't you uncover him?" 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Stay cool. 

"Okay, fine," Winnifred whirled around, scaring the poor lad. "I busted your boss. Well, tell your lovely sire that if he wants to speak with me, he'll have to come right up to me instead of sending some not-so-subtly flirting youngster." 

Carrot Boy stumbled back, eyes wide open. 

"C'mon, I'll wait right here, at this spot," Winnifred sneered. "Oh, and by the way, is your name Nicholas?" 

"N-Nicky," Carrot Boy stuttered. Winnifred widely grinned, hating herself at this moment. 

"Well, I busted you also. Mister Millard, remember?" 

He fled. Winnifred pressed her wet hand over her sweating forehead and carefully looked over the corner. Nicky was out of sight. Now, Winnifred fled. 

She ran as fast as she could manage in her square heels. She won some time, but her lack of streets greatly compensated her improvised escape route. Winnifred sped around the corner, knocking into another dead end. Winnifred wheeled on her heels and ran on the opposite alley. Breath knocking out in gasps, increasing her pace, Winnifred desperately fumbled with her pockets, trying to read ANYTHING on the constantly shoving, jumping, changing map. Subway to the right. Winnifred sharply turned, noticing the train. Winnifred tossed the map away, giving all she got. Suddenly, her heel jotted into a rock, sending her flying on the ground. Her knee skidded on the asphalt, tearing her stockings, and scraping of the skin off her palms. Winnifred frantically got up, racing towards the subway. The doors shut in her face. 

A strong, Italian mixed with Chicago accent rang out behind her back. 

"I see why Heath was friends with you, Miss Freddie." 

Winnifred felt a deep sigh and fear burst inside her lungs. She led it out with a quiet _damn_ before slowly turning around. A tall, grey haired man, probably in his early fifties, in a white tuxedo broadly smiled at her. 

"Good day, Miss Freddie." Winnifred lifted her eyebrows, trying to stop the shaking threatening to overtake her knees. 

"I'm glad that you realize that I don't like being addressed by a third party, Signor," she paused, "Falcone." The Roman smirked. 

"Quite a hubris for someone so low of your level." 

"Depends on how the level is set, signor. I think the position of a simplistic woman is morally higher than that of a complex mafiosi." 

"Morally," Falcone snorted. "Mistake number one. No one cares what you think morally." 

Winnifred bit her lip, sweat soaking the collar of her coat. He was too good. 

Falcone noticed the tense loss of words on her face and smirked. 

"Cigarettes, miss?" Winnifred lowered her gaze at the pack he was holding. It was Heath's. Winnifred looked back up at Falcone and wordlessly knocked it out of his hand. The dangerous smile dropped off his face and the mafiosi slowly sucked the air. The cigarettes rolled on the ground next to their feet. 

"A subway platform is not quite fit for our conversation, miss," Falcone coldly said. 

"We are going to have our conversation where I want to," Winnifred quietly replied, fingers gripping into her purse. 

"Then you better want what I want," Falcone sharply retorted. A limousine pulled over the street. Humid, sticky sweat drops rimmed the inside edge of Winnifred's beret as she helplessly followed Falcone into the car. A leathery, new smell hit her in the nose. There was another man in the car. He had a rifle. Winnifred nervously glanced at it, before transferring her gaze at Falcone, sitting across her. 

"So," Falcone tilted forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers intertwined with each other. 

"I know what you're doing these past days. And I want you to knock it out." Winnifred lifted her head upwards, choosing her words. An iron fist squeezed her stomach, juice trickling in between its metal knuckles. The back of her head suddenly ached, as if the bullet already passed through it. 

"If you're so afraid of me finding Heath, does that mean that I almost found him?" 

Falcone chuckled, looking to the side. Suddenly, the man pointed the gun at her. Winnifred's heart rattled in the rib cage. Falcone looked back at her, merriment gone in his eyes. 

"Only fools have such loose tongues like yours, Miss Freddie. And let me tell you. I don't like fools." The man cocked the gun. Winnifred stiffened, afraid to breath. Shaking as if in a fever, she desperately tried to tell her brain to tell her heart to stop pounding. A minute passed. Falcone suddenly flung open the door. He jotted his thumb outwards. 

"Get out." 

Winnifred quickly scrambled out. She heard the door flung shut behind her and the starting engine. There was a roar and the whistling of the wheels. The limousine was gone. Winnifred harshly pulled off her beret, messy, damp hair falling on her face. The entire part of her forehead covered by the beret was coated in sweat. Winnifred wiped it from her face, smearing it with tears. There was a rumbling sound of the upcoming subway train.


	23. Part 3: Autumn - Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks for not updating yesterday! I was really cramped for time!  
> Well, we've reached one of my favorite chapters. I call it the chapter when everything starts spiraling down....anyways, thanks for reading (my kudo number jumped from one to two which I think is a huge achievement), you folks can't imagine how you make my day! Hope you enjoy!

After leaving Heath, Johnathan stood for a while in the empty street, before tucking his coat closer to his body and walking away. Heath's swollen scars flashed in his mind, like neon lights above a bar. Why didn't he think to advise him to get some ibuprofen? That would at least take away the swelling. Johnathan sighed and, squinting, glanced at the building in front of him. Arkham Asylum. A strange feeling of stifled curiosity and trepidation shivered on the reflection of his eyeglasses. The building's shadow looked over the road, wind dragging the leaves in front of him. So what if he gave him ibuprofen? Heath would refuse and kindly let him know that he doesn't care a fuck about his scars and neither should others.... Johnathan turned around and walked in the opposite direction. But he could still feel the disappointment treading after him like a dog. 

The city was quiet today. The cars occasionally blurred past Johnathan, but it wasn't the same six o'clock Gotham when every driver seemed to lose their mind and race as in the last time in their lives. For some it was the last time in their lives. Johnathan stopped at a crosswalk and looked forward. Collins wanted him to start teaching in the Gotham University while continuing his practice in the hospital, before slowly but completely taking on teaching. Johnathan did not like the plan, but his opinion wasn't asked. 

The crosswalk glowed green, and Johnathan stepped down on the road. Then again, with him transferring to Gotham, he could conduct his experiments easier. After all, who would care if he borrowed a bum from the road? Winnifred would be horrified. Johnathan bitterly smirked and, quickly running up the steps, opened the university doors. The heavy smell of wood and books stepped before him. College days rushed before Johnathan's eyes; loud, uncomfortable parties on the floor above his room, lonely hours, frantically hiding drugged roommates in the broom closet. Dr. Collins was already waiting for him, hands placed behind his back. When Johnathan entered, the doctor turned around and briskly walked towards him. 

"Crane, you're here. How did your presentation go? I thought it would end earlier." 

"I had some places to get to when it ended," Johnathan replied, deciding to omit the part where he literally explored the entire Gotham slums to find Heath. 

"Well, come earlier next time. It's better to start early with these folks. Follow me." 

Johnathan walked through the open door into the conference room. There were only two professors inside. Johnathan quickly looked around before shifting his eyes at them. One of them was dressed in a grey suit, the other one in brown. The latter was cleaning his nails. Collins and the professors greeted each other. Johnathan nodded. They sat down. For a while, it was quiet, the provincials and the city dwellers examining one another. Johnathan's eyes involuntarily lowered down; he felt that he was going to burn from awkwardness. Damn provincials. Collins clumsily cleared his throat. 

"Uh...this is Johnathan, Johnathan Crane," he turned in his seat and gestured towards the intern. That one gave a quick, tense smile, eyes shooting up at the professors. 

"He's our best," Collins continued, gaze going from one professor to another. "Since his specialty is a bit out of the hospital range, we were thinking that he could stop by and share his knowledge at this university." 

"Did he finish his doctorate?" Grey-suit interrupted. Johnathan immediately sensed a foe. So did Collins. 

"He is working on it," the doctor answered after a second's hesitation. "He has finished the writing portion and is on the presentation stage." 

Grey-suit leaned back in his chair. 

"We take only doctors." 

Johnathan indifferently shrugged his shoulders. 

"As far as I remember, Kramer was only a master when he taught neurology and didn't even think of getting a doctorate." 

The room elapsed into silence. Collins nervously chewed on his lips. Brown-suit continued to pick on his nails. Grey-suit leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. 

"Kramer didn't teach a mainstream subject. And for a mainstream subject you need a doctorate," he spat. Johnathan smirked. 

"I wasn't planning on teaching a mainstream subject. That would take up all my time." 

"What is your specialty?" 

"Phobias. Creation of fear and its intoxication on the mind. Quite relevant for students who have a phobia of teachers catching them smoking cannabis." 

Collins's collar was obviously to tight. Grey-suit drilled Johnathan with his bright green eyes. Johnathan answered the professor with a calm gaze, thinking of the time when he placed his toxin instead of cannabis for his roommates. That was one of his best experiments ever. 

"We'll consider it," Grey-suit growled. Johnathan politely smiled and stood up before Collins. 

"Good day, gentlemen." 

"Can you afford to cut down on your witty remarks?" Collins snapped as soon as they walked out of the room. 

"They wanted to shut me down before they even learned what I was teaching," Johnathan retorted, eyeing the students walking past him. If he's lucky, he'll have to teach them. Johnathan clasped down the thought and focused back on Collins. 

"They said they'll consider it." 

"No they won't," Collins scoffed. "Not after you talked back to them." Johnathan sighed, not wanting to get into an argument. He hoped that at least his remarks would free him from his job; he wanted to visit Winnifred. 

"Do you need me today?" 

"Yes," Collins harshly replied. "We have to perform a surgery on a tongue. Quite fitting to teach you what happens when you use it too much." 

Johnathan pressed his lips, but didn't say anything. 

*** 

_Dear Freddie,_

_Heinrich Henry whatever got me his job. Nothing special. Running a gun shop._

_Jack got a compassionate release. It didn't even hurt for him._

_It's hard to speak._

_I need money. Not that I need need it, but it would be nice. And they make good money at that biathlon._

Heath looked up over his triangle shaped glass of whiskey. That old guy brought him to some scummy, underground club. Heath did not know why he did that. He was probably bored to go alone. Or his scars would bring attention which Heinrich might want. 

The light from the orange, hanging lamps gave off a dim radiation from the smoke. Barely audible music, the clinking of glass, loud laughter, rough, barking voices. Some were dressed extremely well, tuxedos and gowns like that. Mafiosi. Heath was disgusted. Point a gun on 'em and there goes all the lofty air. Heath suddenly wondered what would happen if you blow them up. The fireworks must be spectacular. The vibrant hues of the ladies' dresses would make a grand explosion of colors in the sky. 

"So are you going to drink or not?" 

Heath blinked and glanced at the young woman who handed him the glass. She had a frivolous dress with a low cut in the front. Her high cheekbones complemented her jotting out complexion. Heath shook his head and gave the glass over to her. 

"No." His vocal chords strained to go over the aching mouth. His voice came out as deep and slightly rough. The woman shrugged. Heath noticed how her eyes nervously skim over his face. Heath smirked and started going through the crowd. The woman followed him. 

"Where are you going?" 

"The bar stand." 

"You just said that you don't drink." 

Heath made it to the cramped stand and sat down. The bartender immediately popped up next to him. 

"Your order?" 

"Heineken beer." The bartender momentarily disappeared, before sliding over a large glass of beer. Heath slapped the cash Heinrich gave to him and turned around to the woman. He wordlessly handed her the glass. 

"What's your name, love?" 

"Lucy," she answered in surprise before taking a sip. "How did you know that I like Heineken?" 

"You drank it last time I was here." 

"Oh," Lucy took another sip. "So you were watching me?" She asked slyly. Heath smirked, eyes wandering around the room. The analogy of fireworks came back to him. 

"I don't think that's a compliment." 

Lucy climbed into a chair next to him, crossing her right leg, which slid out of her dress, over her left. 

"What are you thinking about?" 

"Fireworks," Heath absently answered, looking around the guests. 

"Fireworks? Oh, there are great fireworks on the Fourth of July. They do it right in front of the city hall-” 

"Not those kind of fireworks. I was thinking that if you blow up this entire place, how great the fireworks would be." 

Lucy stared for a moment, then erupted in a loud, slightly hysterical laughter. 

"God man, I knew you're nuts," she chuckled, beer splashing in her glass. Heath bitterly grinned out of politeness, but didn't say anything. Suddenly, there was commotion in the room. The crowd moved backwards, clearing the space. The bartender placed a table with borders all around the side right next to the wall, about eight meters away from crowd as well as a round cage without a bottom. Inside was a crow, a light chain wrapped around her claw. The chain was fixed to what it seemed a ball, light enough for the bird to move around, yet not enough for her to lift it up. The crow wildly thrashed against the cage's bars, feathers ruffled in fear. The crowd excitedly whistled. Heath leaned close to Lucy. 

"Is this a kind of sport?" He quietly asked. Lucy nodded, sipping on her beer. 

"Yeah. Shoot the crow. Prize of five thousand dollars and public respect. No one except Ramey can get it. Just watch." 

The crowd suddenly hushed. The bartender expectantly held out a small gun. 

"Well?" He cunningly asked. "Who's first?" A young lad jumped out. 

___"Me!"_ _ _

___"Very well," the bartender obediently handed over the gun. The lad positioned himself eight feet away from the table, waiting for the cue. The bartender walked over to the cage and held its top._ _ _

___"Ready...." he said, purposefully slow. The lad nervously nodded. The bartender abruptly lifted the cage._ _ _

___The crow surged up, frantically flapping its wings. The metal chain strained and snapped the bird back down. The ball violently rolled across the surface at the crow's movements. The young lad aligned the gun, trying to catch the crow's motion. The crow screeched, its squawks blending in with the hoots of the crowd. The dim lights illuminated the beads of sweat on the lad's forehead._ _ _

___"God, will he shoot already?" Lucy muttered. Heath gave her a corner glance. Suddenly, a shot rang out. For a moment, the crowd was silent, listening to the the undisturbed caws of the crow. Then, it erupted, booing and humiliating the lad._ _ _

___"Next!" The bar tender happily proclaimed. A woman volunteered this time._ _ _

___Heath quickly got the idea of "the sport". You had to shoot the crow. The trick was that the target was always moving, at lightening speed of an alive creature desperately fighting to remain alive. Three people went, all futile. The crowd was becoming more and more impatient, mocking the contestants from the start. Some weren't able to shoot. Heath noticed that a slick looking man in the corner was watching the entire processions with growing, animal-like satisfaction, cigar smoking between his fingers. Lucy caught Heath's glance._ _ _

___"That's Ramey," she quietly explained. "He's waiting for the high stakes."_ _ _

___Another unsuccessful shot rang out._ _ _

___Ramey suddenly parted from his corner and walked out in front of the crowd. A sudden hush fell over the people, as they watched, as if hypnotized, how Ramey lazily cocks his gun. The crow went hysterical. It wasn't cawing anymore, simply violently thrashing above the table in all directions. Ramey aligned his gun, squinting one eye. The strained silence was disturbed only by the barely audible pounding of the crow's heart and the flapping of her wings. Heath felt sweat trickled down his back._ _ _

___"I can do it!" Heinrich, drunk to the core, suddenly tumbled out of the crowd. Lucy closed her eyes in disdain._ _ _

___"That pathetic creature. Misses every time."_ _ _

___"I can do it!" Heinrich grabbed the gun out of the coldly amused Ramey's grasp and re-cocking and cocking the weapon again shot into the air. The crow fell on the table. The crowd, prior exchanging disgusted glances, breathed out in shock. Lucy spilled the beer over herself._ _ _

___"See?!" Heinrich triumphantly shouted. "I did it!"_ _ _

___The crow suddenly surged up, blood trickling down from its foot over the metal chain, and ravaged with an even greater vigor. Ramey wordlessly took the gun away from Heinrich whose eyes seemed to be bulging out of their orbits and aimed. Heath suddenly caught himself counting down. Three....two....one..... A shot shook the atmosphere. The crow fell down on the table, dead._ _ _

___The crowd triumphantly roared, people clapping Ramey in the back, ladies fawning over. The bartender, smiling to himself, swooshed the bird into a trash bin and carried it away. Lucy victoriously whooped and took a large gulp of beer._ _ _

___"Told ya! Ram wins all the time. Hey, Ramey!" She waved to get his attention. The slick mafiosi noticed her and made his way through the crowd._ _ _

___"Hey there, dolly," his voice was greasy and stretched as well. Ramey came up to Lucy and curled his arm around her waist._ _ _

___"You did great," Lucy beamed in his grasp. Ramey smirked and scanned Heath, who wordlessly watched the crow being taken away, from head to foot._ _ _

___"What clown did you find Lucy?"_ _ _

___"I don't know," It finally dawned on her that she never asked his name. "Hey, buddy, what's your name?"_ _ _

___Heath blinked, returning to reality, and turned to them._ _ _

___"Doesn't matter, does it?"_ _ _

___"Are you new?" Ramey squinted, picking up an elegant glass of champagne from the waitress._ _ _

___"I don't remember seeing you here. Are you an Arkham guy?"_ _ _

___People started gathering around them. Heath, looking for something in the crowd, glanced back at Ramey in irritation._ _ _

___"Excuse me?"_ _ _

___"Arkham," Ramey broadly grinned. "For loonies." The drunk crowd around him chortled. Heath smirked, starting forward, walking past the mafiosi._ _ _

___"Missed it, gun guy. I beg your pardon," Heath gallantly said, making his way in between a woman in a long dress and accidentally stepping on her hem. Ramey, unfortunately, followed, Lucy flanked on his side._ _ _

___"Who do you work for?"_ _ _

___Heath sent him a chiding look._ _ _

___"Not you. Anything else?"_ _ _

___"Yeah. Why are you sitting on my girl?"_ _ _

___Heath snorted, dying inside from laughter._ _ _

___"Keep her. I have my own." Lucy's eyes grew wide like apples. Ramey said something else, but Heath didn't hear him, knocking the back door close behind him. The trash was dumped on this lonely alley, stench steaming off the asphalt. Heath's eyes scoured the broken glass bottles, punctured cans, towels, scraps of paper, corks, plates, plastic forks, confetti until he found what he needed. He lowered down on his knees, taking the dead crow into his hands. The cold, messy feathers softly brushed his palms. The bullet singed right through the crow's breast, grey ash neatly piled on the circumference of the black circle. Heath abstractly stared at the dead bird. What if all of this was a dream, starting from him entering Falcone's restaurant to him suffocating in these disgusting bars? So if this is a dream, this crow is alive, with a beating heart and flowing blood! Heath scrambled up to his legs, his entire body shuddering. There was only one way to check. The muscles in his forearms tensed, conscience and reason pulling on them. So? If she's dead, then she'll fall to the ground and won't feel anything because... she's dead. If she's alive, then she'll fly away. Heath hesitated and then threw the crow upwards into the air. It made a neat parabola before plunking on the ground. Heath stared at the corpse he just threw. Suddenly, immense hilarity bent him over. He. Thought. A corpse. Was alive. ALIVE!!! Hysterical laughter broke from the swollen lips, tearing the face into one like those devilish grimaces drawn on the cards._ _ _

___***_ _ _

_Later that night._

___Pain ripped through his mouth, sliding down his scars like on a playground. Heath harshly rose up, the linen next to him wet from sweat. Hesitantly, he brought the hand towards his scars and lowered it down without even reaching them; the pain convulsed him before he could do so. Heath stared into the wall in front of him, gathering his thoughts across the forest of his mind. Pain is just a feeling, a parasite of the brain…. Heath clenched his teeth, grimacing from effort. The pain throbbed and vibrated in his scars, but he forced it to shut down, pushing and pushing, almost self-hypnotizing himself. Slowly, the pain numbed away. Heath sat for awhile in the same position, not wanting to spook away the numbness, then carefully got out. Every movement was robotic, focused on keeping the pain at bay. Heath pulled a shirt over his head. The tunic slid over the face and the scars. Pain flared, and so did Heath's acute brain. For a moment, pain and the senses fought each other. Senses won. Pain, rumbling, rolled back. Heath slowly exhaled through his teeth and glanced at the clock. Four fourteen. Perfect. His work at the gun store didn't start until seven, and he had almost three hours to himself. Heath walked out onto the balcony, feet slightly prickling up from its cold floor. The city's moon was the traffic lights, blinking between red, yellow, and green. What a colorful moon. Not as colorful as Winnifred's eyes when she found out that he was a murderer. Heath sighed. Did she forgive him? He wished he could find out. He feared that he wouldn't._ _ _

___***_ _ _

___Their carousel didn't have those horses that they drew in books. Their carousel was rusty, awkward, yet the fastest. The old, wooden benches quietly creaked. The rusty chains tautly holding up the swings scratched the air with a loud, gritting sound of rust grinding against rust. Winnifred sat on the carousel bench, elbows buried in her knees. The work day at her old company to which she has returned was already over. Her eyes dully took in the sun, blinding the branches and sinking into the horizon. She had no idea why Falcone did not kill her. But he would kill her the next time. It was so strange - the fact that someone could kill you. You don't believe it until the very last second. And then cake turns into acid._ _ _

___Winnifred sighed and pulled up the bag next to her. With slightly trembling hands, she took out the shivering letters. The cops didn't touch them during the inspection. Winnifred carefully laid them out on her skirt, bringing them up to her eyes one by one._ _ _

_Our lovely Freddie,_

_Don't judge. In some aspect, I did lose the bet._

_My dear Freddie,_

_You won't at all like my job. It is, you can say, completely out of your taste. But it's okay._

_Your poor disobedient friend Your tired friend_

_I think they gave his some barely alive mousies at the hospital. Now he's experimenting with them. So which one of us is the sadist, eh Freddie?_

_Do you like it there?_

_I find this all very ironic._

_More than here?_

_Your lost friend_

___Winnifred couldn't finish. Sniffing up the tears, she carefully tucked the letters back into her bag and left the playground. The fields were dry and dim, seeping out life from the sky. Winnifred steadily walked. There was no work, no one to check at the hospital, Johnathan was in Gotham, the rest of the gang spread across the town in their own private corners. Nothing to hurry for or worry about. Winnifred passed the scarecrow. It was dark and menacing, the ragged cloth quivering in the wind. Suddenly, her pocket started vibrating. Winnifred startled and hurriedly took out the shaking phone. It was her aunt's, but occasionally the older woman would allow the girls to take it around. It was her Margaret._ _ _

___"Margie?" Winnifred frowned, bringing the phone up to her ear._ _ _

___"Freddie, where are you?" The voice on the other end was strained and nervous. Winnifred's eyes darted back and forth. Fields and forests._ _ _

___"In the middle of the road, heading home. Why?"_ _ _

___"Well, make it faster." The dial rang in Winnifred's ear. She stared at the phone in frustration, before quickly dialing Margaret's number again. Her ring was answered right away._ _ _

___"Yes?"_ _ _

___"Damn it Margaret, what's going on?" The sigh was so loud that it became clouded with static._ _ _

___"Nothing, Winnifred. It's just that Robbie Hales, Lucy's older brother, you know, the one that would always trail behind Heath for magic tricks, has gone missing. He was walking to the mill and - poof."_ _ _


	24. Part 3: Autumn - Chapter 4

The wall had a beautiful beige color to it. A bloody bullseye with its uneven lines ruined the picture. The white paint glistened on the wall. A second later it was torn with an ashy, black hole. 

Heath absently studied the hole in the wall, inches away from the center. He stepped forward and picked up the bullet off the floor. He nimbly recharged the magazine and aimed. The doorbell tinkled, and Heath lowered the gun in dissatisfaction. 

"Yes?" He asked in voice louder than usual, coming out of the storage room to the counter and sliding the gun into his back pocket. A burly, tattooed punk with a skull bandanna and metal rings was standing in the door way. His tiny eyes under pierced eyelids looked around the heavily armored walls. 

"Hey there, boy." The punk transferred the eyes on the salesman, silently waiting for him to make up his mind. The punk moved slightly from surprise. Heath wordlessly wiped his mouth, purposefully touching the scars to unnerve the man. 

"You were saying?...." 

"I need a Winchester, caliber 34,” the big punk gruffly said, pinning the dollars down on the counter with his wide hand. Heath silently turned around and took one of the multitude of rifles off the wall. 

"Have a good hunt." Heath handed over the weapon, placing the dollar into his pocket and without another glance at the man, walked back into the storage room, knocking the door behind him. 

The trigger was still warm. Heath slightly squinted, then shot again. This one was a bit farther then the last one. A curse flashed in Heath's mind, but he didn't say anything. Simply reloaded. 

The doorbell rattled. Heath grumbled something to himself, before pocketing the gun. He thought for a second. Then, he took the gun out and aimed at the bullseye. 

"Hello? Anyone here?" A young, female voice asked. Heath closed his eyes in slight irritation and lowered his gun on the table. 

"Yes?" He inquired, walking out of the storage room. It was Lucy, a fake fox scarf thrust around her neck complete with a hideous beret. 

"Hey there, Mister Unknown," she broadly grinned, her plain face veiling up with charm. Heath's shoulder muscles relaxed as he leaned on the counter. 

"Well hello, dear," he smiled. "How did you find me?" 

"Heinrich told me," Lucy chuckled. "Didn't know that you were at that geezer's den." 

"Did he now?" Heath raised his eyebrows, sitting down at the counter. 

"Yeah," Lucy leaned with her elbow on the counter, her face slightly tilted. 

"So you're not local?" 

"No," Heath absently answered, studying Lucy's face as he gazed down at her. The woman's eyes momentarily flickered up and down as they took in the scars in daylight. Heath quietly laughed and drew back. 

"So what brought you here, Lucy? I hope something more important than a simple visit." 

"You don't like simplicity?" Lucy raised her elegant eyebrows, teeth glistening from under the cherry lips. Heath sent her a knowing glance. 

"I like when people answer my questions. Which is, by the way," he jumped off the counter and began wiping dust off a random pistol just for fun," why I like the girl at my local town more than you." 

Lucy smirked, but Heath saw the insulted coldness shiver in her cheekbones. 

"I see. Was she as delicately sliced as you?" 

Heath narrowed his eyes, unknowingly cocking the trigger. 

"As far as concerning her killing humor, yes." 

"What?" 

"Never mind." Heath glanced behind Lucy's shoulder. "Is that your friend?" He pointed the gun. Lucy whipped around to see Ramey, politely smiling, hands hidden in the pockets of his coat, standing in the doorway. 

"Good morning, Lucy," Ramey flashed. Lucy was silent. Heath glanced between them. 

"Good morning, Mister Ramey," he politely said. Lucy's nails dug into her palm. Romney took a step forward. 

"I'm afraid I was rude to you the last time we met," he apologetically smiled, leaning on the counter. His eyes dangerously flashed. Heath shrugged. 

"It's okay, I'm not hurt." 

"So," Ramey made a barely noticeably emphasis on the word. "Who are you?" 

Heath tore his gaze away from the window and looked straight at Ramey. 

"A salesclerk. What, do I look like someone else?" He sarcastically looked over himself before lifting his eyes up on Ramey. The mafiosi indifferently moved his shoulders, taking out a thick cigar out of his port. The smoke puffed right into Heath's face. 

"I'd say a serial killer with that smile of yours," he smirked, looking back at stone faced Lucy. 

"Right, Lucy?" 

Lucy nervously smiled. "Right." 

Ramey turned back around to see a gun's muzzle pointing right at him. 

"The smile did turn out a bit creepy," Heath grinned, the scars raising up into a devilish smirk. 

"But I don't think that was the point." 

*** 

The bloodshot, wide eyes followed the curly wisps of smoke rising into the air. Johnathan slightly bent his fingers, numb from being in one position, and the cigarette tipped to one end like a seesaw. A stench of chemicals floated in the room, soaking into objects like mist. Johnathan brought the cigarette to his mouth, but the touch of the dry paper against his lips brought nausea up to his throat, and, slightly coughing, he lowered it down. The crows perched behind his back on the cabinet, other hopped on the students' ungraded reports scattered on the floor, his grandma was sitting on the couch, drilling holes in his head with her beady eyes. Johnathan didn't care. He was so saturated with the chemical that projections of his inner fears didn't really trigger anything. Someone ringed into the door. 

"Come in," Johnathan apathetically answered, taking in another breath of the cigarette, eyes darting to the window. Winnifred's red raincoat reflected in the glass. 

"Hi, I've just come from the posta - oh my god, what the hell…" Winnifred coughed into her elbow, immediately afterwards cupping her nose with her hands. 

"What exactly did you burn in here?" 

Johnathan smirked, glancing over his shoulder and freely swiveling in his chair. 

"Hi. Nothing much, just doing experiments." 

The expression of bewilderment on Winnifred's face changed to an expression of exasperation and frustration. 

"Really, again?" She angrily blurted out, walking across the apartment with wide steps. Johnathan sighed, rubbing his forehead with his thumb. Winnifred stopped in front of him him, arms crossed on her chest. 

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," Johnathan hastily said, closing his eyes and moving his hand in circles. 

"Save your sorries for outside," Winnfred glowered, taking him by the arm and dragging him towards the exit. 

"I can't stand another minute in this chemical pot." 

The air outside was refreshing, but too cold. Johnathan blinked and shivered. For the first time, he noticed the bare trees and the dull yellow leaves shuddering on the branches. 

"It's autumn," he noticed. Winnfred smirked. "Can't notice us from all the Gotham skyscrapers," she joked, nudging him with the elbow. Johnathan gave a short smile, circling his elbow for Winnifred to wrap her arm around. They walked together in a comfortable silence, enjoying the sinister nature around them. Winnifred started first. 

"How's college going?" 

"It's okay," Johnathan shrugged. "I'm there only for the dissertation." 

Winnfred quickly glanced at him. 

"And then?" 

He hesitated, pausing his gaze on the dull clouds. They spelled out indistinct, mythological creatures he couldn't quite pinpoint. 

"Probably settle in some hospital where I'll have the freedom to conduct experiments." 

"The sooner the better. As long as you're not conducting them on yourself," Winniferd uttered under her breath. She noticed Johnathan staring at her with a strange expression. 

"What? I can't stand that stench in your room!" 

"No, it's... never mind," Johnathan laughed, a shadow flickering in his eyes. These kinds of sentences get Freddie in trouble… his shoe cracked over something, and he looked down. A crumpled MISSING poster quivered under his sole, Robbie's freckled, childish face smiling at them. 

"They haven't found him still," Winnifred quietly said, also looking down at the poster. "It's been three days already." 

"He's probably in Gotham." Johnathan responded, eyes trailing over the photograph. Winnifred's hand tightened over his elbow. 

"Why?" 

"People get lost there." The sentence came out more double-barreled than he intended it to be. Johnathan fell silent, sensing it in the air. Winnifred sensed it too. Stepping over the poster, she moved first, Johnathan silently followed her. 

*** 

It was a day after he talked with Winnifred. The screams loudly echoed in the hallways as Johnathan followed the senile, old doctor. 

"The first thing green folk like you must understand is that Arkham Asylum is not a rehabilitation center for ordinary insane fellas," the old professor quietly drawled as he nimbly moved down the empty corridor. 

"Arkham is specifically for the extremely bonkered, brain burned survivors of electric chairs who did all sorts of punishable stuff when they were free." 

"Did all sorts of punishable stuff?" Johnathan raised his eyebrows. A shiver ran down his spine. 

"Am I correct to assume that you assume that the world is based off an eye for eye system?" 

In the low lighting, the old man's toothless smile seemed wicked. 

"Good fella." A shriek ran out behind one of the doors. 

"I understand that a second internship is not an easy task. But I know your reputation, Mr. Crane, and your idiotic stubbornness to drive yourself to the grave with work. Consider my offer. Our patient folk would love you." 

Johnathan thoughtfully walked down the street. Arkham offered him everything, actual work which he loved so much. And completely devoid of the possibility of him having to use himself as testing material. To Winnifred's delight. Though she'd probably prefer him testing on himself after she figures out that he'll be testing on live inmates. If she figures out. 

Johnathan absently turned round the corner. His eyes fell on a lonely gun shop. The glass in the door was shattered, a young woman lying through it. Johnathan frowned. He glanced around. The street was empty. Johnathan quickly ran up to the shop, slowing down next to the door. Apparently, the young woman fell right through it. But she didn't die of the impact: underneath the little shards of glass lacing the woman's face, there was a neat, black hole in her forehead. Johnathan carefully moved the broken door aside, shoving the glass across the asphalt, and cautiously stepped over the dead body. 

The gun shop greeted Johnathan with a hushed silence. Johnathan's blue eyes warily scanned the room and its dangerous arsenal. His eyes lowered on a small gun lying on a box next to the windows. Johnathan quietly picked it up. There was a sound of a cocking gun. 

Johnathan quietly continued, careful not to step in the blood trickling down the floor. A man in a sophisticated trench coat was sprawled face up on the floor. Blood spilled from his severed mouth, the apparent harbor of the bullet. There was a port cigar on the counter. Johnathan's eyes slowly lifted up on the door to the storage room. It was lightly swinging. Johnathan slightly hesitated, feeling disgusted anticipation squeeze his throat. Sweat pressed down on him from under the tie. 

He abruptly flung open the door, gun raised. The door loudly banged against the wall, revealing an empty room. Johnathan sighed and lowered the gun. He looked around. The storage room was packed with different kinds of weapons, all the way from elegant, silver hand guns to grenades and explosives. Johnathan moved the boxes and machine guns and sat down on the table. He tiredly wiped out the sweat off his forehead. Suddenly, something sharp rammed into his side. Johnathan muttered a curse under his breath and glanced down. A piece of paper was partially crushed down by him. Irritated, Johnathan took it out, involuntarily smoothing its surface. The first words sent Johnathan back into cold sweat. 

_dear freddie_

_lena eats only fish the local drugstore guy was so unnerved makes me wonder if you will be too_

_Freddie-Steady, Are You Ready?_

_Sorry, that was mean._

_Henry was in a bad mood today. He got used to the scars._

_How are you? Things are pretty boring for me. I just run a gun shop every day. No one comes anyway, (Heinrich's reputation perhaps?) but it's good; I have lots of time to practice shooting and examine the weaponry. I wanna kill that crow._

_I stopped dreaming lately. Remember, I would always have some nonsense spiraling around somewhere and then I would entertain you with that nonsense when I drink too much champagne on a birthday? Well, now it's all darkness. No, wrong - darkness and a buzzing hum of a radio._

_I accidentally broke the guy's hideous vase. He called me a freak._

Johnathan lowered the letter, in reality nothing more than a simple accumulation of thoughts, written on different days and in different moods. Disgust and bitterness creeped out of the sentences, be they in an angry note or a cold, biting paragraph. They were pressing down on him like the tall skyscrapers on the asphalt, which can only be destroyed by crawling out from the underneath. Johnathan sighed. Heath probably won't spend so much effort. He'll just blow the skyscrapers up. Figuratively, of course. 

Johnathan tucked the letter inside his pocket and stood up off the table. The storage room had another door open, leading out to the backstreets. Johnathan watched the ugly scenery widen and narrow back and forth as the door swung. The pistol slipped inside next to the letter as the intern left the building. Heath didn't want to be found. Johnathan didn't want to look.

Margaret quickly walked down the hallway and hastily opened the door. 

"Hello, who is....Jack?" She raised her eyes in surprise at the unexpected visitor. 

"Good afternoon, Margaret," Jack tightly smiled, eyes wandering beyond her shoulder. 

"Where's Winnifred?" 

***

Margaret's fingers tensed on the doorknob. "Why?" 

Jack's gaze transferred back on Margaret's suspicious face. 

"I need to talk to her." 

"She's at the church," Margaret shrugged. Jack curtly nodded and walked away. The ginger-curled girl watched him go, doubt and disdain trembling in her heart, before closing the door. 

They thought it would rain that day, and they brought umbrellas, but the sun shone brightly in the sky. So they simply opened them to create shade for the players. 

The muscles rippled Billy's ace tattoo as he flexed his arm to get a better position. Ridley watched him opposite of the table, well, the box, cards bending under his spasmodic grasp. The warm breeze ruffled Winnifred's hair, let down and held by a blue headband, across her face. She felt like wearing gold earrings today, she had no idea why. Charlotte was sitting next to Sammy, desperately loosing. Jennifer was in front of that guy who was holding the umbrella. He was one of the local highschoolers. Winnifred never remembered his name. All she remembered was that his nickname was better. Mousey. Mousey quietly sneezed and fixed his hold on the umbrella. 

"Three debts," Billy declared, glancing up from his cards. Winnifred sighed and propped her chin inside of her palm, the elbow painfully digging into her knee. The guys started tossing the cards. 

"Winnifred!" 

Winnifred looked up in surprise. Billy glanced over his shoulder and quietly whistled. 

"There comes Jack the Giant Slayer." Winnifred stifled down her unpleasant amusement and turned back around. Charlotte rolled her eyes. The umbrellas slightly shifted when Jack came up. 

"Hello." 

No one said anything. Jack narrowed his eyes and quietly cleared his throat. 

"May I borrow Winnifred for a moment?" 

"Jack, is that you?" Billy asked, eagerly watching Ridley's nimble movements. Jack sourly grinned. 

"Yes." 

Billy raised his eyebrows. 

"Finally," he slapped his cards down on the table and looked up at Jack with a grin. 

"Our Giant Slayer climbed down the fucking beanstalk to chat with the plebeians. How considerate." 

Winnifred slightly grimaced, but didn't say anything. Jack smirked. 

"Glad that you appreciate it." 

Winnifred sighed and slowly stood up, careful not to hit the umbrellas. 

"Let's go," she quietly said, nodding to Billy. That one quickly nodded in adieu, rubbing his chin with the side of his index finger. Jack wordlessly followed her. 

They walked in strained silence. The forest debris shuffled under their feet as the soft wind bumped against the leaves. 

"You look depressed," Jack quietly noticed, hands folded behind his back. Winnifred chuckled, shaking her head. 

"No, I'm doing great. How are you? It's your first day out of the hospital, right?" 

"I fine," Jack tightly smiled. "The ribs still hurt a little bit, but otherwise..." he indefinitely moved his shoulder. Winnifred nodded, thinking about something of her own. They reached the bustling river. Jack sat down on the log, while the girl walked right up to the banks, crouching down and bathing her fingers in the water. The river was cold, instantly numbing her fingers. Winnifred patiently waited for Jack to speak, unpleasantly curious in what he has to say. The wind ripped a leaf off the branch and swirled it down into the river. 

"So," Jack slowly started. "You probably know what I want to tell you." 

The leaf drifted over to Winnifred's fingers and instantly clung its wet, cold body around them. The soft breeze suddenly became very cool. Winnifred felt her, aching from the crouched position, ankles shudder, threatening to fall over. 

"No, but I can guess," she proposed, trying to keep her voice amiable. "Is it about Heath?" 

"No, it's about you invading my private property." 

Winnifred slowly glanced over her shoulder, before turning around completely. Jack was wordlessly staring at her, dark triumph glimmering in his eyes. 

"Your...when did I ever do that?" Winnifred quietly asked, nervousness using her stomach as a trampoline. Jack indifferently shrugged, his eyes never leaving Winnifred's face. 

"When you took my personal documents. You know I can sue you, right?" 

The nervousness jumped up and hit the rib cage. Winnifred tilted her head. The usual irritation was replaced by dread, crawling up her throat. 

"You're on a compassionate release, what else do you want?" She inquired in a blank voice, careful not to lose control over her feelings. Jack chuckled and stood up, walking up close to her. 

"A compassionate release doesn't mean anything, only that I can walk around without having to hide my face and Heath does." 

"The thugs aided you," Winnifred harshly answered, anger flushing into her cheeks. Jack crookedly grinned. 

"Or so you think. But whatever. Now that you spread the word about me, how will I be able to work? No one's going to hire me." 

"Go to Maine," Winnifred coldly retorted, nervousness threatening to break her rib cage. She felt pressure clasping her thoughts in one metal ring. 

"Gotham Outskirts is too little of a town to have any significance on you." 

"I will at one point," Jack's eyes dangerously sparked. For the first time, Winnifred saw immense anger rage inside the dark irises. 

"Yet I want to secure the fact that Miss Lewly won't go to the Gotham Court and start rattling about my misconducting allegations, by the way completely omitting the part about her murderous friend." 

"Don't speak as if I'm in third person," Winnifred angrily said, trembling from fury. 

"And you're a murder yourself, you murdered Milden!" 

"Technically, Nicky did," Jack sarcastically corrected her, taking out a cigarette. The smoke hit Winnifred in the face, tickling her dry throat. Winnifred held back the cough and tried to keep the biting tears from rolling down her cheeks. 

"What do you want?" 

Jack smirked through the smoke. 

"You to keep your trap shut, even when you want to avenge your friend's death." 

"What nonsense," Winnifred spat, attempting to keep the treacherous tears inside the corner of her eyes. 

"Heath is alive." 

"Of course he was," Jack shrugged. Winnifred stared at Jack in disdain, before abruptly storming out. Jack chuckled behind her. Winnifred ignored him and ran through the woods. Nervousness finally broke the rib cage and now threatened to rip through her heart. Stop it, Winnifred harshly ordered herself as the branches angrily scratched her hands as she pushed them out of her way. Heath is alive. He's too smart for Gotham to kill him. 

Winnifred ran out into the clearing to the intern dormitory. The door was closed. Skidding to a stop, she jammed her hand over the button. 

"Johnny, this is Winnifred, open up!" 

A monotonous dial tone answered her. Winnifred slammed the button again, its round surface indenting in her palm. "

Johnny!" The dial tone angrily buzzed at her. Winnifred felt desperation wrap around her heart. Johnathan wasn't at the hospital because he didn't have an afternoon shift on Sundays. That means he was out of town. Winnifred leaned against the wall. The wind tossed the leaves around the clearing. Winnifred's blue eyes trailed after them, sadness building inside. The metal ring slightly loosened on her mind, indicating that the spasm decided not to happen. Winnifred scanned the clearing again. She suddenly lurched up. Johnathan was tiredly walking into the clearing, his dark coat flapping at his sides. 

"Johnny," Winnifred called and quickly ran over to him. Johnathan, seemingly thinking about something, startled and lifted his eyes on her in surprise. 

"Freddie? What were you doing here?" He asked, fingers tightening in his pocket. 

"Waiting," Winnifred impatiently crackled her knuckles. "Johnathan, you were in Gotham, right?" 

"Yes." The eyes behind the glasses narrowed, searching the woman's face. 

"Did...did you see...." Winnifred stumbled, the words catching in her throat. Johnathan's features softened as he glanced at her in sympathy. 

"Heath?" He finished, slowly starting towards the dorms. 

"By any chance?" Winnifred quietly asked, trying to tell what the intern was thinking. Johnathan pressed the key towards the button, and the door buzzed in a welcoming manner. 

"You won't be surprised if I first ask why you need this?" Johnathan held the door, curiously looking at Winnifred. She looked away, pressing her lips. 

"I talked with Jack a few minutes ago. He said that Heath's dead." 

Johnathan snorted, remembering the cyanide spread on the wooden planks. 

"I can see where Jack's coming from. Don't worry, Freddie. Heath disregards his personal health to such a point that he ultimately survives." 

"What?" Winnifred frowned. 

"Heath is able to survive in the most extreme situations because he risks his life. An all the extreme situations require risk," Johnathan explained, walking into the doorway. 

"But did you see him?" 

Johnathan paused and glanced over at his friend. He observed the dark circles around her eyes, the paleness, and ultimately the hidden despair from the unknown. 

"No, I haven't seen him," Johnathan quietly answered. "Are you coming in?" 

"No," Winnifred sighed, shaking her head. "I'm needed back home." The autumn breeze whispered behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said in the previous chapter....stuff's spiraling! For some characters, they're spiraling out of control, some down the drain....but enough of spoilers :) Thank you so much for reading! See you tomorrow, folks!


	25. Part 3: Autumn - Chapter 5

It was the end of October, Hallow's Eve. The houses, spooky by themselves, proudly displayed the poorly cut pumpkins, candles glimmering inside. The sky was rolling down between the branches. Johnathan walked down the street. He had a night shift surgery today, so he was in a slight hurry to get to the hospital. He sighed and took out a cigarette to calm down his nerves. 

*** 

Hallow's Eve was always fun for the college students. Celebrations always started at least three days before the actual holiday in Gotham Outskirts. A sign of their obvious progress in comparison to other celebrations in the world. 

Billy absently hummed, holding the cigarette with his teeth, as he nimbly tied the laces in Charlotte's back. His small apartment, turned into a costume factory, was always the center of the hubbub on Hallow's Eve. Sammy was somewhere in the kitchen, puffing the white powder onto his face. Jennifer and her friends were trying on wired, holed hats, apparently witches. Billy accidentally pulled the strings too hard. 

"Ow, Billy!" 

"Sorry, Lottie," Billy obediently loosened the strings and made a final knot. Charlotte turned around, a white nightgown streaming down. Her dirty blonde hair was clipped in curls, like that of the doll of Billy's tiny sister. 

"Thanks, Billy." Charlotte picked up her white mask. It had long, black eyelashes which covered her eyes completely and needle-like eyebrows. She put it on. Billy whistled. 

"Damn it, Lottie. You're scary." 

Charlotte didn't answer anything and simply began to arrange the pieces of cloth utilized for the costumes scattered around the room. Billy, in his simple vintage coat, cap, and breeches, smirked and put on his mask; a faceless cover of a little boy. 

"Too bad Heath's missing," Sammy sighed behind them. Billy turned around and saw a skeleton in disorganized white linens patched all over the place like a messy quilt stare at him. 

"He had the most creativity out of us all." 

"Well, Heath certainly paid for that creativity when he improvised on that Browning mess," Mark harshly hobbled into the room, now an old hag with a screeching face. Billy grimaced, not wanting that uncomfortable feeling which has been following him the entire day to take over. 

"I'm going to check on Freddie," Charlotte quietly stepped in. 

"I don't think she's going to come," A little girl with a scarf around her head and a grimacing mask stepped in. 

"She didn't come here." 

Charlotte shrugged and made it towards the door. The October air rubbed against her palms, not able to freeze her cheeks covered by the mask. The evening had already crashed down on the town, the pumpkin candles creepily wavering in the darkness. Little trick-o-treaters shuffled from candle to candle, the shivering light illuminating their eery, distorted masks. Charlotte walked down the dusty road, the mask's edges uncomfortably digging into her skin. Every year, since middle school, they would gather round and do something stupid. It was fun, but stupid. Thank god everyone got used to their amusements. 

Winnifred's house also had a small little pumpkin grinning at the road. Charlotte walked over to the porch and knocked. The door opened in two minutes. 

"Hey there," Winnifred smiled in her regular clothes. "Isn't that the costume from eleventh grade?" 

"I thought no one would notice," Charlotte sighed, eyes twinkling. "Listen, are you coming down? Everyone's ready." 

"I'm not coming," Winnifred shook her head. "Sorry, not this year." 

"But you're the heart of the company!" 

Winnifred shook her head again. "No, Lottie. I don't even have a costume. And no, the costume of a pedestrian doesn't count." 

Charlotte understood that there's nothing she could do. 

"Alright. Tell us if we get too loud." 

"Of course," Winnifred smiled. For a moment, she watched the doll disappear into the darkness. Then, she quietly closed the door. 

*** 

Johnathan tiredly wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his gloved hand and sighed. Dr. Collins looked just as tired. 

"Well," he said, then abruptly tugged off his gloves and tossed them into the trash. 

"That's that. Time of death twelve forty-nine. Tell Evangeline to tell the Cartwrights that he didn't make it." Johnathan wordlessly covered the old man with a white blanket, before taking the phone on the wall. There was a large boom outside the window and loud laughter. Collins shook his head. 

"Those students. Mark my words, Crane, we will have some more work this night if they keep on drinking like that." 

Johnathan smirked into the phone. 

*** 

The forest was booming with loud music. The flickering light of the torches swiveled back and forth between the trees. Dark figures appeared and disappeared among the bonfire, wildly dancing to the rugged melody. Charlotte stumbled over an empty bottle of vodka on the grass and fell on her knees. Her head was light, the metal pounding in her brain. Gleaming, unstable images flashed in front of her eyes. Charlotte stood up, swinging from side to side. Damn it, where's the bloody center of mass? Painfully trying to remember, Charlotte staggered out of the crowd surrounding the blazing bonfire. The trees rocked from one side to the other, and it took Charlotte awhile to notice Jack, absently walking in the woods. A sudden idea hit Charlotte's head so hard that she had to keep herself from falling. Shit, she has to look sober... 

"Hey Jack!" Jack glanced over his shoulder. Charlotte didn't bother taking off her mask. 

"Are you looking for Freddie? It's that way!" 

She jerked her trembling hand in the direction of the bonfire. Jack hesitated. So Charlotte took action. 

"C'mon Jack, don't make me give you a whack!" Charlotte giggled at her originality and tugged Jack by the sleeve with her. 

"C'mon, brownie, c'mon!" Her vision was blurred, but she didn't care. Dragging Jack right into the center of the crowd, she noticed Billy, hugging a horrifying witch in one hand and clenching a bottle of beer with the other. 

"Billy!" Charlotte shouted, not letting go of Jack. "Look whom I got!" 

Billy glanced her way and slid his hand off the witch. He walked over to them, eyes burning with drunken hellfire. 

"Well, well, well," Billy was unnoticeably swaying. "Good to see you, Jack. Whatcha doing here?" 

"I was just walking by when your girl rudely grabbed me," Jack coldly answered, eyes cautiously scanning the dubious group he was in. 

"Oh, don't hurt my poor girl," Billy chuckled and shoved a bottle in to Jack. 

"Drink." 

"What?" Jack startled. Billy took out a little pocket knife. 

"I said drink before I chop you up into little pieces." Jack's eyes were wide open in amusement, but he obediently drank a sip. 

"Drink it all." Billy was merciless. Jack glanced over his shoulder, but the wild dancers already blocked his way out. Billy widely grinned. Jack's eyes transferred on the little silver metal shimmering in Billy's hand. Sighing, he brought the bottle neck to his lips. Billy's grin widened. 

The fire crackled in fury. The roaring music boomed with the accompany of hand claps of the jeering vintage monsters. 

"Third bottle!" Billy proclaimed, ripping his mask off of his face, beaded in sweat. The tiny droplets glimmered in the blazing illumination. 

"C'mon, Browning, do it, you fucking whim!" 

Jack's eyes ignited with drunk fury as he snatched the third bottle from Billy's hand. The crowd supportively screeched. Charlotte happily clapped her hands and started to make her way out of the crowd. This was such a great idea, she should find someone else to participate! The forest seemed alive from the students' burning life, the trees dancing next to the swaying doll, the branches making disco moves. Charlotte staggered, eyes desperately trying to find someone who would participate in her idea. Suddenly, she noticed a hunched figure lonely standing next to a tree. Charlotte happily leaped and ran over, tapping him on the shoulder. 

"Hey, mister, mister...." she fearfully hiccuped when the man turned around. The white paint, streaming down from sweat, cracked around the skin, black circles highlighting the flaming eyes. The man's costume was consisting of a torn, brown trench coat over a sleeveless, white shirt, stained in a reddish color and pants. Two long scars stretched from the man's red lips into a mocking grin. 

"Yes?" The man quietly asked, stretching the word. Trembling, Charlotte took the man by his arm. 

"C'mon, mister, c'mon, it's going to be fun..." She had no idea where she was going, but she didn't want to turn her back towards the man. A branch snapped under her shoe. 

"Really?" The man's soft voice was barely audible in the booming music resonating across the entire forest. 

"Yes, sir, come this way sir...." Charlotte quickly glanced behind her shoulder and instantly snapped back. 

"We're almost there, sir, this way, sir...." 

A fancy witch turned around, dancing to the music, and shrieked at the sight of the man and the doll leading him out of the forest. The people behind the witch turned around to see what was going on and quickly moved out of their way. Charlotte continued leading the smiling man, people parting behind her back, until she reached the center. Jack was almost done with the third bottle. Finishing, he thrust it on the ground, smashing it to pieces. The crowd giddily laughed. The laughter instantly died off when the doll stepped out. 

"Billy!" Charlotte shouted in a thin voice. "I brought another player to our game." 

Billy, watching staggering Jack in amusement, turned around to couple. He slightly shuddered. Someone turned off the music. 

For a moment, Billy simply observed the man in front of him. 

"Do I know you?" He finally asked. "You look familiar as fuck." 

"No," the man kneeled down and picked up an empty bottle lying on the ground. He glanced at it and let it fall out of his hands in disappointment. 

"I uh...just wanted to take part in this....competition." 

Billy narrowed his eyes, searching the man's face. He crossed the arms on his chest. 

"Which drink do you want?" 

"Rum." 

Billy nodded over to Jack. "Hey there, beanstalk, go fetch some rum." Jack obediently swayed over to the crates. Billy turned back to the man, suspicion never leaving his place. 

"So what's your name?" 

The flames played on the man's grin, but he didn’t answer. 

Billy raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. I assume that you want us to name you? How about joker? You awfully look like a clown, but honestly clown is a horrible name. So can you tell us a joke, joker-poker?" The man smirked. 

"Sure." 

Jack staggered over to the man and handed him the bottle with a trembling hand. The man suddenly grabbed him firmly by the arm, bringing him close to his face. The crowd flinched, but the knife next to Jack's face in the man's hand stopped them. 

"Joke Number One," the man quietly said. Jack's drunken eyes widened as he recognized the swollen scars and the knife. 

"Why didn't Jack Browning make it home?" 

"Oh my god!" Charlotte suddenly screamed. "Oh my god, I remember now! I remember! It's Heath!" 

The man suddenly snatched the bottle out of Jack's hands and, ripping off the top, threw it into the bonfire. The fire hissed and exploded up into the sky with a deafening crack. The faceless guests, not daring to move before, instantly lurched, knocking into each other and trying to find a way out. Jack toppled on the ground, frantic feet hitting his body, some other unfortunates falling on top as they were pushed out of the way. Damp, alcohol-stanched soil got into Jack's mouth, the reddish night sky rolling back and forth, the small grass blades brushing his cheeks. The scent of cinder hit Jack's nose as the embers rolled out of the bonfire. Suddenly, someone heaved over him, knocking out the breath. Two dark brown eyes, drowning in the black rims drilled into Jack's sweaty face. 

"Good evening, Mister Browning." 

Fury and hatred tore through the intoxicated veil of alcohol. Jack angrily lunged, getting out of Heath's grasp, yet before he could make a move, the man pinned him down again. The cold metal touched Jack's cheek. 

"I won't maim you that much. Just enough to get my point across." 

Jack's screams were lost in the overall commotion of people running to get away from the starting fire. Heath silently worked, throwing all of his long lasting disgust and loath into his creation. For a moment, he glanced up, noticing the drunk doll frantically run beside him. She didn't notice them. All what Charlotte saw were flaming trees, dark figures flashing back and forth, and the scars. Her feet automatically ran to the first thing she thought of. 

The hospital lights glumly shone in between the trees. 

Charlotte lunged forward and finally those abstract lights became actual lights that shone off the windows. 

"Help," she breathed out, swinging forth the doors. The illuminated room hit her in the face, making her stagger back. When she recovered, she saw the entire personnel and patients gawking at her. Johnathan was standing slightly farther, alone in the hallway. Charlotte immediately started towards him, a feeling of nausea threatening to sweep her off her feet. Johnathan quickly ran up to her, guessing her intentions, and soon Charlotte felt strong hands grab her by the shoulders. Thank god, she thought, and tears of relief rolled down her cheeks. 

"Charlotte, right?" Johnathan harshly turned her face towards his, forcing her to look into his blue eyes. 

"What happened, Charlotte?" 

"I-It's...it's....H-Heath....the joker....he started a fire....it was a game," Charlotte stuttered, frantically grabbing him by the sleeves. 

"His face, Johnathan, it's cut, he's smiling...." The doors flung open again. A rugged student, clothes torn, dragged an unconscious woman onto the ground. 

Johnathan's blood froze. Not unconscious. Dead. 

"They trampled over her in the commotion," the student rasped in grief. A nurse wordlessly helped him stand up. 

"Clarke," Collins flatly said. "Get the ambulance division ready. And call the firefighters." 

"I already did so, sir," Evangeline quietly responded, quietly lowering down the receiver. 

"Good. Everyone else, get the rooms ready. We're going to have a lot of patients tonight." 

Johnathan nodded, lifting the dead woman unto the stretcher trolley with Richard. It was Eva, Winnifred's classmate in tenth grade. Johnathan grasped the cold trolley rails with his sweaty hands and began rolling it down the hallway. He sensed his throat painfully pulse against the tight, damp collar. Johnathan felt as if all of his organs were sucked inside an anvil, leaving a dreadful void inside. He should have found Heath two months ago. The comparison of the skyscrapers appeared in front of Johnathan's eyes. Heath blew them up. 

*** 

The paper hanging on the walls was the same like before: light purple with a faint design. Heath quietly walked down the hallway, glancing to his side. Margaret was sitting in the living room, reading a book on the couch. Heath looked back around and quietly passed the entrance. The sound of the running faucet water made Heath's heart quicken its pace. He leaned on the doorway leading to the kitchen. Winnifred was standing back to him, washing dishes and singing something to herself. Heath sadly smiled, the red paint cracking at the corner of his lips. He haven't seen her since the trial. There was a sound of wailing sirens. Winnifred looked up and walked over to the window that was across the doorway. Heath's eyes followed her as she watched the firefighter truck and several ambulances race towards the forest. He felt a twinge of distorted irritation on her concern. It wasn't that bad, honestly. Suddenly, he saw her shoulders stiffen. For a moment, he didn't understand. Then, he noticed her looking intently in the window, eyes tracing the faint outline of the face, shining in the white paint, complete with a familiar, bloody smile....Winnifred glanced behind her shoulder. The hallway was empty. 

*** 

The hospital was live hell. A few stretcher trolleys already knocked into Johnathan. Half of his bones were probably broken by this point. Johnathan quickly outran a nurse hurriedly driving a wheelchair and snatched the portfolio from one of the dividers on the wall. He glanced at the patient's name: Jack Browning. Johnathan gritted a curse through his teeth. He always gets the worst one. He turned the corner and entered the room. Dr. Collins was already there, frowning at the patient. A male nurse with a mask was standing next to the bed. When the intern came in, he glanced up, but didn't say anything. Collins jerked and walked over to Johnathan, lightly taking him by the elbow. 

"He's just a pile of bloody mess. Do we have another free emergency room?" 

Johnathan wordlessly lifted his eyebrows at the sight of the dry blood parchments, uneven, deep cuts, and the raw, disturbed flesh. 

"No, but we can share room 6. The other ones already have three per room." 

Dr. Collins quietly swore, then started out of the room. 

"Prepare it then. We can still save him. You," he addressed the nurse on the way, "Drive him to room 6. Be quick." The nurse nodded and took the stretcher trolley's rails. Johnathan held the door for the nurse to pass, then quickly walked towards room six. He didn't notice the trolley carefully turning in the other direction. 

*** 

The first feeling was nausea. The lights came as thin strips of vague, fuzzy circles through blood-clotted eyelids. Jack coarsely exhaled, pain tearing his lungs. It took him a few minutes to understand that he was being driven on a trolley. His eyes arched back. A male nurse silently drove the trolley. Catching Jack's gaze, he wordlessly nodded. Jack looked back down and closed his eyes, falling back down into an abyss. 

He awoke a few minutes later. They were still driving. Agony tore Jack's muscles apart, blood trickling down his neck from the scars underneath his chin. Overcoming the pain, Jack coarsely whispered. 

"Where are you taking me?" 

"To the morgue." 

Jack startled. 

"What? But I'm not dead yet." 

"And we're not there yet," the nurse's eyes shortly lowered down on Jack's appalled face, before quickly placing a gag into his mouth and covering him with a blanket. Jack frantically breathed, the damp moisture from his breath residing into his mouth, causing the saliva to precipitate underneath his tongue, provoking dreadful thirst. He tried to move, but the exposed flesh instantly jerked at the accidental touch of the covering blanket. Sweat streamed down Jack's arms, suffocating him in the heat of his own fear. There was a hissing sound of opening doors. Jack felt the cold ooze through the open edges of the blanket, cooling the steaming droplets on the forehead. The trolley stopped. The blanket abruptly thrust open, revealing the merciless, silver walls and their inhabitants. Jack stared with wide eyes, gag moist between his teeth as the nurse calmly entered the numbers into the container. 

"One, five, six, four, six, three, six..." the nurse softly mumbled to himself, too quiet for Jack to hear. The chamber swooshed open. The nurse pulled open a metal stretcher, letting out a quiet exclamation of amusement that it was empty. He took out a small slip of paper and a pen from his pocket and placed them on Jack's stomach, using it as a table. Jack watched in horror as the nurse neatly prints out his name. He suddenly lifted his head. 

"What's your middle name?" 

Jack's stomach fell somewhere very, very far away. He knew that voice. More saliva accumulated next to the gag as the thumping of the heart wildly rattling against the rib cage increased. The nurse thought for a second. 

"We'll just assume you won't have one. No big deal, the dead do not care if their middle initial is included on the tombstone or not." 

By now, Jack was frantically tossing across the gurney. The nurse, undisturbed, held down the patient's leg down and delicately placed the tag around his toe. 

Chuckling, he pulled down Jack's gag down at the same time as his mask. 

"Lucky for you that the dieter's off duty, eh Jack?" 

"Mother-fucking asshole, you son of a bitch," Jack coarsely breathed out, staring with hatred at Heath's grinning face. Heath leaned down, the smell of paint hitting Jack into the face. Jack's eyes unwilling averted to the side, not able to look at the terrifying mask. 

"It was poor judgement to return from Maine, Jackie," Heath quietly noticed. The latter glanced at him in disgust. 

"You're making a clown of yourself. A pathetic, desperate clown. You'll never get far, because everyone already knows that you're the joker and tell the Gotham police." 

Heath shrugged. 

"That won't stop me from killing you alive." Placing the gag back on its place, he indifferently heaved thrashing Jack onto the metal stretcher. Freezing air crashed onto Jack's cheeks, frost burning his bloodied flesh. 

Heath smiled at him from the far. 

"And you know what's the difference between a joker and a clown? Well, everyone laughs at the clown." The red scars burnt scarlet. 

"The joker laughs at everyone." 

The chamber door slammed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A true Hallow's Eve, right? :)  
> Not quite the joker mode, but getting there....  
> Reviews appreciated! Thanks for reading, folks!


	26. Part 3: Autumn - Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks! This chapter is shorter than usual - see it as a sort of introduction to the following chapters. I've also added a little bit more at the end of chapter 24 (part 3 chapter 4); not crucial information, but if, you know, want to read, there's some stuff :)   
> Again, thanks a lot for reading! More coming tomorrow!

"As for the final part of our broadcast, the small fire in the forest around three miles away from the main road has been put out. It was started in the area where local college students were celebrating Hallow's Eve. According to the witnesses of the event, the college students made a bonfire when suddenly a man dressed as a joker threw a bottle of rum into the flames, causing it to go out of control. In the chaos that followed, three people were trampled to death, twenty-five severely injured. Interestingly, Jack William Browning Jr. was among the ones hospitalized; he received multiple grave knife cuts, presumably from the man who started the commotion. Furthermore, Browning was found today in the hospital's morgue, frozen to death. The hospital staff cannot explain this bewildering and strange occurrence. As for the identity of the man, some students recognized him as Heath, the murderer of Judge William Mitchell. Both he and Jack Browning were convicted..." 

Winnifred slapped the TV's button and turned around, lips tightly pressed together. Johnathan wordlessly sat in the couch, eyes fixed on the black screen. 

"Well?" Winnifred blankly asked, sitting down next to him. "What do you think?" 

Johnathan blinked. 

"Nothing," he sighed, leaning back on the pillows. The rain lightly patterned on the window pane, streaming down into a puddle outside the windowsill.

Winnifred tucked her legs onto the couch, trying to warm herself. Johnathan wrapped his arm around her small frame, taking off his glasses and closing his eyes. Winnifred breathed on her shuddering fingers. How could Heath do this? 

"How could he do this?" She quietly said to no one in particular. 

"Easy," Johnathan answered without opening his eyes. Winnifred raised her head up to look at him, his arm slipping down her shoulders. 

"Explain then." 

Johnathan shifted, trying to get a better position. 

"It's a common occurrence for people of Heath's type, in other words people who have loose moral standards." 

"Heath doesn't have loose moral standards." 

"But they're not excessively fixed." Johnathan was quiet for a moment, then slightly opened his eyes. 

"When you get fed up, these flexible standards won't stop you from doing what you want." 

"Still, Heath did not want to kill," Winnifred argued, flexing her toes to keep them from freezing. Johnathan bitterly chuckled. 

"Of course not. Tell that to Jack. Freddie, you knew Heath better than this. I would even guess that this loose morality or rather this peculiarity is why you became friends with him in the first place. " 

Winnifred sadly chuckled into her fist as she remembered her first day in kindergarten. _The classroom was chilly and bare, not at all resembling those inspirational stories about first days of school. Winnifred sat down next to her best friend Charlotte Hutchinson. In the desk in front of them was Billy, the proclaimed rebel, and the new boy in an over-sized trench coat. In the first ten minutes of class, their teacher made them stand in a circle and introduce each other along with a description. Little Winnifred was super nervous._

_"HimynameisWinnifredandIlike...f-fireworks."_

_"Hi, my name is Heath and my best friend is Freddie."_

_Not many kindergarteners knew that Freddie was a nickname for Winnifred, so they disregarded his statement. But Winnifred didn't._

The teapot whistled in the kitchen. Johnathan sighed and quickly putting on the glasses, freed his hand and hurried to the kitchen. Winnifred's head lost its support and fell down on the couch's seating. Her eyes absently wandered around the room. Deep inside, she couldn't agree more with Johnathan. Of course she knew that Heath was capable of making a show of various levels of peculiarity. She just never thought that this peculiarity would stop becoming peculiar and turn frightening. 

Johnathan returned from the kitchen carrying two small cups of tea. He stared at Winnifred, wordlessly ordering her to get up. Winnifred sighed and sat up, allowing Johnathan to sit down. 

"Thanks," Winnifred sipped the scorching tea. Johnathan picked up the remote from the floor and turned on the television. 

"The search for the man who murdered Jack Browning and caused the fire in the forest is on. The police have already searched the area..." 

"Do you think they'll find him?" Winnifred quietly asked, her warm breath rippling the tea. Johnathan shook his head, grimacing from the hot tea, and lowered the volume. 

"Never." 

"Where do you think he's going to go next?" 

The telephone rang. Winnifred submissively took the cup from Johnathan, sensing how her other palm flushes red from pain. She heard Johnathan tiredly answering the phone. 

"Who was it?" Winnifred asked in curiosity when he returned. 

"From the university." Johnathan took the cup from her and quickly drank the remnants of the tea. Placing the cup down on the table, he disappeared in his bedroom, before reappearing with a dark suitcase. Johnathan lowered it open on the floor and began collecting books and papers around the room. Winnifred wordlessly watched. 

"You're leaving?" 

Johnathan glanced up from the suitcase. 

"Yeah. Tomorrow's the first." 

Winnifred stood up from the couch, her fingers still clutching the cup, and sat down on the floor next to him. She watched how his fingers nimbly arrange a couple of books into his small books. 

"So...your internship is technically over?" 

"Technically, yes." Johnathan stood up and went to his room. Winnifred lowered her eyes and began arranging scattered books and papers to keep herself distracted. But her vision already blurred, tear droplets staining the book's cover. 

"Hey," someone softly said. Winnifred lifted her eyes up. Johnathan gently looked at her, neatly piled clothes in his hand. Winnifred sniffed, looking away. Her eyes fell on the rain-stained window. 

"Oh Freddie," Johnathan lowered the clothes into the suitcase and brought Winnifred close to him. Winnifred turned back around and silently cried into his shirt. Johnathan's fingers slightly pressed down on her upper arm. 

"Freddie, I'm sorry. But there's nothing I can do." 

Winnifred pressed her hand to her face, trying to stifle her cries. Johnathan sighed. Gradually, the rain dulled her crying until it became barely audible. Finally, Winnifred drew back, quickly placing the remaining books into the suitcase. Johnathan sadly smiled and started helping her. The suitcase holders bitterly clicked shut. Johnathan looked up at Winnifred. 

"Will you send my regards to Heath when you see him?" 

Why will I see him, Johnny?" Winnifred softly inquired, smiling through her tears. Johnathan's eyes glimmered behind the glasses. 

"Because he'll go to you next." 

*** 

The train heavily stopped next to the station. Johnathan glanced at it, then, wordlessly took Winnifred by the shoulders, both walking towards the train. They stopped in front of the cabin. Winnifred turned to Johnathan, a grim smile stretching her lips. 

"I'm guessing it would be useless to write to you given that you'll be so preoccupied with your even more useless students." 

Johnathan shrugged, fixing his grasp on his suitcase. His black jacket idly hung in his arm. 

"I observed that letters only add to the....unpleasant feelings accompanying separation." He crookedly smirked. "You see, for the first time, people write to each other like crazy, it's their duty to sit down at the kitchen table, in front of the window with a view on a birch tree, and write...." he shrugged again. 

"But as time goes by, this duty thins and now you have individuals who shame themselves for being so careless about not writing to their beloved...yet they still don't write." 

"Hopeless pessimist," Winnifred chuckled. "All right." She tightly hugged him, sensing the muscles in her chest tighten, then let go. Johnathan nodded, sadness glimmering behind the sun-illuminated glasses. He turned around and quickly entered the cabin. Winnifred silently watched his figure move through the seats to the far end of the cabin and place his luggage on the top shelf. The tightness started pulsing in her chest. Winnifred blinked back the tears and turned around, hearing the train whistle behind her. She quickly ran down the steps onto the dusty road and tucked her hands into her pockets. The leaves sweeped under her feet, dust collecting on the dull surface of her shoes. The sky was veiled in metallic-toned clouds, yet the air clustering near Winnifred's cheeks was still warm. 

The prairies monotonously whistled when Winnifred passed. Winnifred thoughtfully continued on her way, observing the ground. A sudden, fresh whistle ripped the prairies, making her lift her head up. Billy was sitting on the fence, long cigarette bobbling between his teeth. Winnifred wordlessly turned around and approached him. 

"I'm listening," she propped her elbows on the fence, leaning with her entire body. Long, endless prairies stretched in front of her eyes. Interesting, where do they end? 

"Saw another buddy off?" Billy inquired, taking the cigarette out of his mouth with his index and middle fingers. 

"Yup," Winnifred squinted from the bright sun. 

"What about your buddies?" 

Winnifred was quiet for a moment, contemplating the plains. 

"I'm not sure what you mean." 

Billy inaudibly laughed and jumped off the face, standing three quarters to her. 

"Are you coming to the camp or not?" He crookedly grinned, bringing the cigarette up to his mouth. 

Winnifred smirked. 

"Sure," she smiled. "Why not?" Billy breathed out the smoke with a quiet whistle and threw down the cigarette. 

"Great. Tomorrow at six."


	27. Part 3: Autumn - Chapter 7

It was purely their tradition, one out of many. It was only for them, not even for Johnathan. A hike through the woods stretching beyond the outskirts to the lake. Jacob was responsible for the guitar, Ridley for cards and the inflatable canoe for the lake, Mark for the pots, Sammy for the food, Billy for the tents, Winnifred for the clothes, Charlotte for the weaponry against mosquitoes and other nonexistent predators, and Heath for the optimistic atmosphere. 

The air was fresh and crisp at five o'clock. Winnifred sniffed the morning air in satisfaction, lower hamstrings slightly shimmering from the cold. The backpack was unusually heavy on her shoulders. To amuse herself, Winnifred started breathing out cold air from different mouth shapes. After a minute, she understood how terrible of an idea it was; tiny icicles formed inside her throat, threatening to catch her a nice cold. Winnifred quickly shut her mouth. Charlotte slightly rocked back and forth on her feet behind her, humming something off key. Winnifred glanced at her watch in irritation. It was covered in slight frost. Winnifred breathed at it, rubbing the glass with her index finger, sensing how the frost unpleasantly melts on her skin. Four-fifty eight. They better hurry up. 

The morning silence broke under the painful bang of musical strings. The girls squirmed from the screeching sound. 

"Jacob must've dropped his banjo," Charlotte quietly noticed, fixing the backpack up on her shoulders. 

"Most likely," Winnifred licked her upper lip and immediately regretted that; the cold instantly sat on the damp lip. A moment later, the tall, lanky Jacob with his large glasses and faithful guitar over the shoulder trudged up the steps. He wordlessly lifted his hand up in greeting. The girls answered the same. The man approached them. 

"Are you the first ones?" Jacob inquired, little clouds escaping his mouth as he heaved for more breath. 

"Seems like it," Charlotte sighed. Winnifred lifted her eyebrows. 

"Did you drop your mandolin, Jacobo?" 

"It's called a guitar, Wendy." 

Charlotte and Winnifred exchanged a laughing look. Jacob loudly sighed, mirth splashing in his eyes. 

"Yes, I did drop my mandolin. I also brought a second one. It's in the backpack." 

"Won't that be too heavy?" Charlotte frowned. Winnifred waved her arm in pettiness. 

"Relax, Lottie, that's why bring Sammy." 

Jacob crooked his eyebrow. 

"Really? I thought that was your job." 

Winnifred slapped his stomach with an over-exaggerated, insulted face, while Charlotte stifled a giggle. Jacob merely chuckled. 

"Having fun?" Billy appeared out of nowhere, baggy backpack hanging from one shoulder. He allowed it to slide off, heavily banging on the ground, making Charlotte nervously jerk to the side, and took out his unchanging pack of cigarettes. 

"Is everyone here? Hey Jacob," He mumbled through a cigarette, cupping his hands next to his mouth. A small spark momentarily ignited in the darkness. Jacob silently shook his hand, taking the offered cigarette, and quickly smoked off Billy's. 

"Just the people you see," he answered, smoke rolling off into the air. Billy swore and looked over his shoulder. 

"Riley is probably still packing, Mark is washing the dishes, of course, and I have no idea about Samuel." 

At that moment, they saw Sammy hurrying to them back and forth like a penguin. A big backpack hovered over his shoulders, complete with two bulky plastic bags hanging from both of his hands. 

"Sorry, guys, you can't believe the lines in the store, hey bud, fetch me a cigarette," Sammy exhaled, letting go off the bags and shaking his red, striped palms. Winnifred grinned. Charlotte shared a knowing glance with Jacob. Billy simply snorted. 

"Lines in the store? At five o'clock?" He craftily questioned, fingers twirling the cigarette. 

"I know right," Sammy's eyes widened in genuine frustration. Billy smirked. 

"Here." 

Sammy happily took the offered cigarette. Jacob took out his, staring in discontent at the short butt, then threw it on the ground. 

"Did you see Mark and Riley by any chance?" Winnifred asked, massaging her numb fingers. Sammy nodded. 

"Yuppie. Mark will be here at any moment. Riley too." Billy rolled his eyes in irritation. 

"Relax, Billy," Charlotte asked, eyeing his restlessness. "What about playing cities?" 

"Sure," Jacob easily agreed. "New Orleans." 

"San Francisco," Charlotte carried on. "Billy?" 

Billy stopped looking around, head snapping back to the company. 

"Huh? Which letter?" 

"O," Winnifred flatly answered, rocking back and forth on her feet, gaze wandering between the ground and the forest. 

"Oh okay, Oral." 

"What?" Charlotte asked, creasing her forehead. Billy shortly glanced at her. 

"Kazakhstan. Sam?" 

Sammy fumbled with his cigarette in concentration. 

"Lansing. Gran lived there." 

Billy expectantly glanced at Winnifred. 

"Gotham," she tensely said. Everyone suddenly found the ground, prairies in the background, sky in Sammy's case, very interesting. Winnifred pressed her lips together, cursing herself. The city rolled off her tongue automatically, since she kept on thinking about it. What if Heath returned there? 

There was commotion in the end of the station. Everyone turned. Riley and Mark were making their way to the company. 

"Hola," Mark shortly said. 

"Bonjour," Billy sarcastically retorted. Riley wearily lowered his bags on the ground, wiping sweat from his forehead. 

"I apologize. I lost my cards." 

"Oh no, it's fine," Jacob lightheartedly answered, picking up Riley's bag. 

"Yeah right," Charlotte mumbled. "Especially if you're standing her since four thirty." 

"No one made you wake up at four, Lottie," Mark noticed, eyes twinkling at the girl. Charlotte rolled her eyes. 

"Oh c'mon, Charlotte, the train isn't even here yet!" 

As if on a cue, there was a distanced sound of a train whistle. Mark winked to Winnifred. 

"See? We're always promptly on time." 

*** 

The fire pleasantly crackled in the clustering twilight. Jacob thoughtfully picked the strings, watching everyone through his glasses. Billy and Sammy were in a duel of poker. Winnifred was mixing something in the small pot over the fire. Mark and Riley were busy setting up the tents. Charlotte was desperately trying to find where Riley packed the dishes. 

The forest gently whispered among them. The wind mockingly ruffled with his large palm the trees' tall curls of golden and crimson. They were still seven days away from the lake. A small, metal bowl appeared in front of Jacob's nose. 

"Here," Charlotte answered. "Chicken soup." Jacob lowered down his guitar on the forest floor and received the dinner with a short smile. In the side, Winnifred was arguing with Billy and Sammy to join the fire, claiming that their game could wait and receiving the counterargument that it couldn't. 

They sat in the order they usually did. Mark, Charlotte, Sammy, Jacob, Billy, Heath, Winnifred, and Riley. The order came automatically, requiring no thinking. The chicken soup was a bit salty this time, but the meat was exceptionally soft. 

"Thank you, girls," Sammy finally said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Delicious, as always." Winnifred widely smiled and took the bowl from him. Mark was already washing the dishes in the small pot of water. Billy absently dug between his teeth with his nail. 

"Well?" Jacob paused. He picked up his guitar and gave it a sudden strum, before forming these strums into a familiar tune. 

"I have a mule, her name is Sal..." he started singing, lips stretching into a broad grin. 

"Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal," Billy quietly carried on, eyes on his cards. Winnifred chuckled and leaned on his shoulder. 

"She's a good old friend, and a good old pal," she tuned in. 

"Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal," Charlotte finished. The next stanza started off with Mark, Riley, and Jacob again. Everyone sang the last one. The next one was _When Johnny Comes Marching Home_. It was one of the favorites. Every song was. All schoolteachers said that they were the most musical generation they've taught. Winnifred couldn't agree more. They didn't have a whole bunch of songs, only the ones they were forced to memorize in the schoolrooms. They were all great songs. Jacob started a catchy tune. Riley tuned in with the second, smaller guitar. Billy sighed, placing down his cards, and stood in front of Winnifred, wordlessly holding out his hand. She smiled and took it. Billy instantly brought her close to him, moving to the tact. Winnifred held his shoulder, watching how Sammy twirls with Charlotte next to them. Mark continued washing the dishes, his eyes twinkling with mirth. Winnifred noticed how Billy's eyes never stopped on any particular object, moving from the fire, to the tree, then to the guitar. Billy caught her stare and smiled. 

"Sorry. It's just that I can't look at my partner girls. They blush too quickly. Why I avoid dancing in general." 

"Oh c'mon, Billy," Winnifred rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I know you for like forever." 

"That's true," Billy smirked and transferred his gaze right on Winnifred. His heavy like lead gaze complete with abyssal eyes drilled Winnifred to the core, not caring to wipe off the splinters that were left on the surface. But Winnifred wasn't giving up. Despite the dizzy heat and redness which burned her cheeks into ashes, Winnifred stubbornly stared at Billy, her eyes watering. A few cool tears slightly relieved the frying cheeks, yet Winnifred did not look down. A twig snapped under someone's shoe. Finally, Billy chuckled and brought Winnifred close to him. 

"Little, stubborn girl," he quietly laughed into her ear. Winnifred didn't say anything, excessively blinking and enjoying the immense relief from not being stared by at a live python. Jacob started another familiar tone. Billy turned around, holding Winnifred by the shoulders. Mark and Riley were singing some song, inserting their own words. 

"One guy, one girl, one prize, one goal," Sammy bawled off key. Winnifred opened her mouth, and Billy tilted his head to her her better. 

"You want to say something?" 

"Do you remember what was the continuation of the song?" 

Billy absently passed his fingers through his hair. 

"I remember that it was fucking inappropriate." 

"Oh god." Winnifred closed her eyes with a smile. 

*** 

They genuinely tried to go to bed or to the tents if you will, early, but obviously failed. It was around four o'clock. The sun was rising in the distance, painting the horizon with burning red. Mark accidentally kicked the teapot. Billy turned around on his side. 

"What the fuck?" His not fully opened eyes glared at Mark. 

"Sorry, man," Mark apologized in a hushed whisper. "I'm going to river to get the water for the teapot." 

"Well do it quietly," Billy snapped, before rolling over to the other side. Mark nodded and exited the male tent. Billy heard him happily whistle and the leaves crunching under his feet as he merrily skipped towards the river. 

"Fucking idiot," Billy mumbled and closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep. Sleep wasn't coming. Billy quietly cursed and rolled over on his back. He lifted his arm upwards and back, hand groping the backpack behind his head. His fingers stumbled over the multiple strings and nets. Billy tensely bent his arm in an uncomfortable position, trying to get the side of his backpack. His fingers dug into the side pocket, nails barely scratching the surface of the cigarette pack. Billy grunted and slightly moved. The fingers loosely grasped around the pack's side and shakily slid it out, before dropping it down on the chest. Billy then did the same for the lighter, inconveniently placed in the opposite side. There was a clicking sound, and smoke spiraled up. Sammy shifted in his place, glancing over his shoulder. 

"Are you bloody smoking again?" He sleepily grumbled. "Smoke on the other side!" 

Billy obediently turned around, propping his head with his elbow. He absently smoked, eyes studying the tattered, dull orange cloth of the tent. There were no thoughts, just the simple, captivating feeling of early morning. After awhile, the cigarette ended. Billy tucked it inside the pack, then grabbed his murky flannel shirt. 

The morning was chilly, the sky burning hot red. Billy observed it for a second, fingers buttoning his shirt, then turned to the fire. The coals were barely burning. Billy shook his head, cursing Mark for being such an idiot, then crouched down. The cold air rasped his throat as he blew down on the soft flame, igniting it to a full-scale fire. 

"Good morning," someone sleepily said. Billy looked up and saw Charlotte, the sleep's feathers still clinging to her cheeks. 

"Morning, love," Billy responded, standing up. Charlotte scanned their small camp. 

"Did someone already get the water?" 

"Mark went around ten minutes ago," Billy shrugged. 

"Ten?" Charlotte lifted her brows. "It's only two minutes to the river." 

"That's why I'm gonna check on him right now." 

"Where's Billy going?" Jacob asked, walking out of his tent and noticing his friend leaving into the woods. Charlotte was fixing the dishes. 

"To the river to check on Mark." 

Little by little, the rest gathered out to the campfire. Winnifred desperately stifled a yawn, the cold unpleasantly stinging her eyes, warming her hands around the hot bowl of soup. Jacob was helping Charlotte with the dishes. Riley was finishing up his breakfast. Sammy was abundantly swearing, his deck of cards flashing in his fingers. 

"Hey, did anyone see my six of hearts?" He asked in irritation, looking up with his frustrated eyes. 

"No," Riley answered through a mouth full of chicken. "Is it missing?" 

Sammy lowly growled and renewed his search. After two minutes, he snapped his head back again. 

"Are y'all sure you didn't see it?" He pressed. 

"I did." 

Winnifred swiveled her head to see Billy leaning on a pine tree, arms crossed on his chest. His face was unusually pale, fingers spasmodically gripping on to his coat. 

"Where?" Sammy immediately asked. Billy nodded his head towards the river. 

"There." Sammy rushed down. Billy looked down on the ground. Winnifred frowned. 

"Billy..." she started. A stifled scream interrupted her. For a moment, everyone was motionless before, like on a cue, rushing after Sammy. Billy simply closed his eyes, then opened them again, walked over to the log where Riley was eating and sat down, covering his face with his hand. Winnifred was the first to reach the river. Instantly, she covered her mouth with her hand, trying to suppress the scream of horror coarsely escaping her throat. Next to the river was Mark, face down. Blood was gushing out of the frightening wound on the back of his head. Six of hearts was pinned in his back. 

"Oh my god," Charlotte breathed out. Jacob just stared, eyes wide. Sammy was on the ground, hands pressed to his face. 

"B-bbut w-who did this?" Riley stuttered, the color drenched from his face. Winnifred suddenly felt someone's hand tightly press her shoulder. She jerked in surprise. Billy's cigarette soaked breath scorched her neck. The sudden realization came as its fingers pulled down on her heart. 

"No, Billy," she hoarsely whispered. He sighed. The fingers ripped off a piece of her heart and tumbled with it into the abyss. 

"Why though?" Charlotte quietly asked. The same horror of realization was evident in her look. Billy looked away. He didn't have an answer. 

*** 

They continued in their way around fifteen minutes later. Heavy silence accompanied them, constantly reminding them that fifteen minutes ago, one of them was buried. And they couldn't turn back. They went too far. 

It was midday. Six more days till the lake. They were climbing up a rocky trail, a smooth mountain to their right and an abrupt precipice to their left. Winnifred's palms still scratched from the dirt. Hot tears ate away her eyes. Winnifred pressed her sleeve to her nose, hiding the sniffs. Riley thoughtfully trailed behind her, quietly humming a sad tune behind her. Suddenly, there was an abrupt sound of falling rocks. Winnifred's head whipped up. Her eyes widened; an entire avalanche of rocks was crashing down her way. Winnifred hastily scrambled up the rocky trail, stumbling over Jacob. He looked back at her, then up, before abruptly dragging her upwards. Winnifred glanced over her shoulder. Riley, face twisted in fear, was scrambling behind her. 

"RILEY!!!!" Winnifred screamed and held out her hand. Riley suddenly stumbled, tripping over his shoelace and felt head first on the ground. Winnifred covered her mouth, paralyzed. Billy suddenly pushed through them, distorted determination written on his face. Riley lifted up his bloodied face. He tried to stand up, but at that same moment, a huge rock crashed onto his spine and neck. Winnifred squeezed her eyes shut. Jacob's fingers dug into her elbows. Billy simply stood there, staring at the remnants of his friend. A gurgling sound came out of his throat. Somewhere from the above, a card spiraled down, landing promptly at Billy's feet. Ten of spades. Winnifred started violently trembling. No, no, no, this was an accident, dear god, please let this be an accident, no, no, Riley, please not Riley.... 

"Let's go," Billy growled, harshly taking her by the shoulders and swiveling her around. 

"Jacob, hold Charlotte before she loses it." Jacob nodded and took Charlotte by the hand, on the verge of fainting. Billy wordlessly dragged the backpack off her shoulders and roughly unzipped it. 

"You took an assembled gun, didn't you?" He curtly asked, searching through the belongings. Charlotte violently shook her head, unable to rip her eyes off the rock. Assembled gun. These words echoed in Winnifred's head as she silently watched how Billy nimbly assembles the weapon. He was hunting them. They were hunting him. The blood trickled out of her left nostril.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEFORE YOU FOLKS ALL COME ON ME.... explanations are going to come, don't worry!  
> Big thank you to everyone who's sticking around! You're great, folks!


	28. Part 3: Autumn - Chapter 8

After two hours, they descended down the mountain and resumed walking in the forest. Winnifred felt him watching her, his careful gaze burning her neck. Her eyes drifted to the gun hanging over Billy's stiff shoulders. The leaves painfully crunched under her step. 

Winnifred couldn't sleep that night. She and Charlotte moved over to the guys' tent, too afraid to be sleeping alone. The tent seemed to be steaming from the tense knotting of emotions, wrinkling the air with nervous breaths. Winnifred's eyes drifted over to the tent's entrance. Sammy and the gun's shadows swayed in the darkness. He was on guard tonight. Winnifred slightly shifted on the uncomfortable ground, then shut her eyes. After all, if she's asleep, it won't be as painful. 

"FFUUCK YOU!!!! YOU BLOODY MOTHER-FUCKER, GOD DAMN YOU!!!!...” 

Winnifred eyes slammed open. She scrambled out of her sleeping bag, kicking it away and tossing her damp hair out of her face, ripped the tent flap open. Her fingers clenched the tent's upward doorway until it tore her skin. Sammy was lying on the ground, a long, ragged wound rising from his stomach all the way up to his throat. The leaves scattered around were sprinkled in blood. Billy was next to him, white face obliterated with rage. 

"Fuck you," he breathed out, gaze fixed on Sammy's frightened, childish face. 

"I'm gonna kill you, I swear to hell, I'm gonna kill you..." 

Charlotte, tears streaming down her face, walked up to him and tightly wrapped her arms around him. Billy buried his face into her shoulder, choking in tears. Jacob, wildly shaking, lifted up a bloodied card lying next to Sammy. 

"A J-Jack," he stammered. 

"So?" Winifred whispered. Jacob turned his face to her. The sun brightly reflected on his glasses, hiding his eyes from Winnifred. 

"Jacks go before Queens. Queens are next." 

Billy slowly lifted his head from Charlotte's shoulder, his face unreadable. Charlotte stepped back, hands trembling. 

"No, no, no," she whispered. "He won't do this." Billy wordlessly looked at her, then at Winnifred. Winnifred felt her heart stop, then painfully jolt against the rib cage. She involuntarily raised her hand up to her chest. 

"Oh yes he will," Billy quietly said. Charlotte swayed. Jacob instantly caught her, but she already opened her eyes. 

"We should keep going," Charlotte quietly said. Her eyes lowered down to Sammy. Jacob caught the meaning and lifted the body, carrying it to the closest pine tree. Billy joined him. Winnifred wordlessly began packing up the bags, everything passing between her eyes like a black and white film. Even the noises in her head mimicked the sound of a snapping camera. Charlotte silently helped her. They resumed on their way close to seven o'clock. Billy walked in the front, then was Charlotte with Winnifred, complete with Jacob in the back. He didn't have a gun, rather a knife. Winnifred stared down at the ground while walking, sensing Charlotte's sweaty hand tremble in hers. Her head felt heavy, unable to process anything. She just thought about the day when she ran into the mill and saw the mask and bloodied knife on the windowsill. Why didn't the thugs kill him then? It would've broken her heart. However, they would break her heart. Not him. 

Four days till the lake. Four people left. They sat in silence next to the fire. Charlotte glanced up. 

"I know you forbade us to go alone...." she timidly started. Billy looked up at her with a blank look. 

"And?" 

Charlotte looked embarrassed. 

"I need to go." 

"I can go with you," Winnifred immediately proposed, glancing at the guys. Billy sighed and tossed a knife to her. 

"Be quick." He looked back at the flames. 

"C'mon," Winnifred touched Charlotte by the upper arm. Her friend followed her. They walked over to the bush a few feet away from the campfire. Winnifred turned around, deciding not to embarrass Charlotte any further. Charlotte thankfully smiled, unzipping her pants. A gun shot rang out. Winnifred swiveled around, heart jumping into her throat. Charlotte stared back at her. As if in slow motion, her knees bent down. 

"No..." Winnifred whispered, jerking forward and propping up Charlotte. 

"No, Lottie, no...." Charlotte's glassy eyes stared back at her. 

"NOOOOO!!!!!......" her scream wavered and broke down into a sob. Tears tore her chest apart as Winnifred hugged her friend, the blood from the hole in the back unpleasantly dripping onto her fingers. The bullet rolled on the ground, a red Q and a heart painted on its side. Lottie, please, please, say something, please, Lottie, you can't, you can't, please tell me it's not true, please, please, Billy, let me go, let me go to her, please, Heath, Heath.... 

"HEATH!!!" Winifred screamed, trying to get out of Billy's tight grasp holding her across the stomach. 

"HEATH COME OUT, I KNOW YOU'RE HERE, HEATH!" 

"Freddie..." Billy started. 

"No!" Winnifred rasped, pushing his face away from her. She felt his tears on her palm. 

"No, Billy, I know he's there, I know it!" Winnifred broke out of his grasp and ran into the forest. Trees, leaves, bushes, branches, dirt, red, yellow, brown, all mixed in front of her eyes, before turning into a kaleidoscope and a painful ache in her nose. Winnifred sat up from the ground, staring at the root she tripped on, then wildly began digging into the ground. She dug, and dug, the soil clamping behind nails, dirt splattering over her face and clothes, but she dug, and dug, and dug.... 

"Freddie, dear..." 

Billy's arms softly took her around the waist. 

"Jacob already buried our Lottie. It's time to go..." 

"No," Winnifred choked. "I need to bury her, I need to do this myself, it's all because of me, Lottie, I'm so sorry...." 

She fully awoke in the tent at night. She didn't remember the rest of the day or how they reached this new campsite. Her head was pounding, and her nose was stuffed. Winnifred turned to her other side and saw Billy, tensely sleeping. Winnifred sighed and walked out of the tent. The night was moonless and dark. Winnifred yawned, rubbing her swollen eyes. That's when she saw blood on the ground. For a moment, Winnifred stared at it, before abruptly going inside the tent. 

*** 

They buried Jacob in the morning. Billy burned the king of clubs left on the corpse's chest. 

The lake's surface was placid. Billy sighed and lowered down his backpack. 

"Here we are," he quietly said. Winnifred nodded, then began assembling the fire. Billy took off his jacket and began setting up the tents. His tattoo caught Winnifred's eye. An ace. For a moment, Winnifred stared at it, before looking away. 

It was the softest evening ever. The inflated canoe gently shook on the water, lulled by the tender ripples. Winnifred lay down next to Billy, his strong hand over her shoulders. Her eyes wandered to the tranquil scenery, the pure white mountains in the distance, the fresh pine trees, and the clear, aquamarine water. 

“Do you want weed?” Billy quietly offered. Winnifred shook her head. She heard him take it out of her pockets and place it in his mouth. For a while, Winnifred listened him quietly chewing it. 

"Billy," she said in a hushed tone. 

"Mmm?" 

"If this was your last day, what would you do?" 

Billy sadly chuckled and brought the cigarette up to his mouth. 

"It's time for the ace, isn't it?" 

Winnifred glanced up at him. Billy looked down at her with a smile. But Winnifred felt his chest tremble under her hand. Billy looked up into the sky. 

"I don't know, Freddie. I probably won't think about it and enjoy my life as best as I can." 

Winnifred unevenly exhaled and closed her tired eyelids. She felt Billy's fingers tighten on her shoulder. 

"What would you do, bud?" 

Winnifred opened her eyes. "I would do the same."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tan-tan-tan! One more chapter left in Part 3! Who's gonna take their exit next...  
> Thank you folks so much for reading! More to come!


	29. Part 3: Autumn - Chapter 9

Winnifred abruptly woke up. The wind quietly shivered outside the tent. Winnifred glanced over her shoulder. 

"Billy?" 

The man lying back to her didn't answer. Winnifred decided not to disturb him and quietly walked out of the tent. The night was gorgeous. The moon reflected in the tranquil waters, the snow on the mountains shimmering in the pale moonlight. Winnifred rubbed her arms, keeping herself warm, and walked over to the lake. There was a sound of splashing water. It was chilly. Winnifred wiped her fingers on her nightgown and started walking to the tent. Suddenly, something in the dirt, right next to the rocks at the lake's banks, caught her eye. Winnifred kneeled down and picked up a card. Dread paralyzed her top to bottom. Slowly, she wiped the dirt off its surface. The joker smiled back at her. And then, she heard a familiar, quiet voice. 

"Turn around." 

Winnifred felt the burning sweat press the hair down to her neck. Her kneecaps treacherously shook. Winnifred slowly turned around, twigs snapping under her feet. 

A tall, slightly hunched, figure watched her from the shadows of the underbrush. Winnifred's breathing quickened. She couldn't see his face. The figure expectantly waited. Winnifred tensely licked her lips with the corner of her tongue. The water in the lake quietly splashed along the bank. 

"I-I can't see you, Heath." 

The figure tilted his head. 

"Why do you need to see me?" The voice was insinuating, almost testing if she could give the right answer. Winnifred felt a scorching stream of sweat streak between her shoulder blades and down her back. 

"Because I didn't see you for a long time." 

Heath wordlessly stepped out of the shadows. Winnifred's fingers instantly clutched the card, crushing the joker's smile. Heath continued approaching her, the ground crackling under his steps. He was smiling, the terrifying, wide grin starkly contrasting with the white paint. Heath stopped a few inches in front of Winnifred. Up close, he wasn't smiling. His dark, unreadable eyes were searching Winnifred' face. It was frozen. Then, it cracked. A bit mechanically, like a poorly-oiled robot, Winnifred slowly took a step forward, hands wavering, before wrapping his broad shoulders with her hands. 

Heath wordlessly hugged her back, sensing her uneven breath on his ear and the trembling fingers, barely touching his coat. Slowly and carefully, he pulled out a small pocket knife from his jacket and brought it up to Winnifred's side. Her hands tightened around his neck, body tensing. Heath tried to ignore the dripping paint on his neck and refocused on Winnifred. No man no problem. They'll kill her, kill her worse than him. His dry lips cracked open. 

"Scared?" 

"Very." 

Heath's fingers dug into her hair, holding on to them as if holding to a life-line. The sweat from Winnifred's palms soaked into his shirt, dampening his shoulders. 

"Please don't kill us," she coarsely breathed out. Heath glumly laughed, knife shivering in his hand. Mark, Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, Billy, Mark, Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, Billy, Mark, Riley... 

"A bit too late for that." ... Jacob, Billy, Winnifred. She was quiet for a while, not able to move. He wasn't able either. 

"What's with the costume?" 

"You don't like it?" Heath forced to lift his eyebrows and looked at Winnifred. Her face was absolutely white, blue eyes opaque. 

"I hate it." 

Heath pulled away from her, but didn't let go. Winnifred's eyes watered, afraid that if she'll blink, she'll trigger the blade at her side. 

"Did they do this to you?" she quietly asked. Heath raised his eyebrows and pointed on his scars. 

"No, this." Winnifred lifted up the crumpled card. "Why did you kill them?" 

Heath's eyes traveled around her face with agony, arms tensing around her waist. 

"Why did you kill them?" She repeated, voice trembling. Hot blood from her nose dropped down on her upper lip, adding on a salty flavor to the bitter taste in her mouth. She won't understand, she will never understand ... and she was so scared, scared to death… his arm fell and he tucked the knife away into his pocket. Winnifred wordlessly watched as Heath turned around and walked away into the shadow of the thicket. There was a sound of crackling wood under boots. The sound was there for a moment, before growing fainter and fainter until it disappeared completely. Heath was gone. 

_End of Part 3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You folks didn't think that the story will end with Heath simply going on a killing spree, right? :)  
> Don't worry, the explanations on why Heath did what he did (apart from the fact that he is or will be a psychotic, mass-murdering criminal) will come in Part 4!  
> As usual, I'm doing a three-day break, so I'll be back on Thursday.  
> And I will never stop thanking those reading and commenting on this story. Folks....you are incredible. Truly.


	30. Part 4: Road To Hell - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! I'm back with Part 4 and long chapters! :)  
> I have a couple of short cameos in this chapter, all DC characters I don't own: DA Rachel Dawes, Killer Croc, and Mad Hatter (i.e. Jarvis Tetch). They don't carry any narrative weight, and I thought it would be fun to include them.  
> Also, big note: This is a semi-violent chapter. Not as violent as the scar-slicing chapter, but, just to be safe.... trigger warning, folks.  
> Alrightie, I'll stop over here. Enjoy!

"What are your plans for the evening?" Robb asked with a smile. Winnifred absently raised her eyes at her co-worker and smiled back. Sammy would've asked if she wanted to buy extra Heineken at his house tonight. Billy would've bluntly asked her if she wanted to hold a sleepover or not. 

"No, I'm sorry, I have some work to do," she sighed, closing her portfolio and standing up. Died-streaked Reese immediately jumped up next to her. 

"Sorry? Why are you sorry?" She instantly inquired. Winnifred involuntarily held her breath. She didn't know why. It just happened. 

"I'm sorry that I can't spend the evening with Robbie," she wearily answered, pushing the doors open. She thought she saw Robb slightly befuddled, while Reese immediately prodded at her new reply. 

"He never said that he'll spend the evening with you! And for heavens' sakes, stop using that annoying diminutive! We're not in the country, remember?" 

Winnifred nodded, to tired to pun that they are technically in the country called United States of America. She simply hitched a taxi. 

"See you guys tomorrow," Winnifred tossed over her shoulder, quickly waving to Robb with a smile and curtly glancing at Reese. The door slammed behind her. An aroma of worn leather, peanuts, and stale air freshener, complete with gang rap quietly jamming from the radio, instantly clouded over Winnifred. For a moment, that door separated her from the honking, busy, crowded outside world and left face to face with the saturated fragrance. The black cab driver with an old, pleated cap expectantly waited for her to answer. 

"Where to?" 

"Letalis Avenue," Winnifred answered, rummaging through her purse. The seat next to her was occupied by several tattered, large bags covered with a few crumpled jackets. Winnifred's feet were uncomfortably propped up by a cardboard box on the bottom. Winnifred didn't notice and took out a small mirror from her bag. Her eyes droopily stared back at her from the murky glass, emphasized by the greenish-grey semi circles underneath. She must have made quite a sight. A hag in young woman's skirts. How funny. Winnifred slapped the mirror shut and glanced out the window. 

"Here, please, thank you," she stopped the taxi driver. "How much?" 

"Seven fifty five." 

Winnifred quickly glanced down at her wallet, before taking out a five and a three. 

"Keep the change. Good night." 

Winnifred walked out, closing the door behind her, and turned on the avenue diverging from Letalis. Her eyes automatically drifted up on the sign. _Risu Boulevard_. Winnifred turned her body sideways and carefully began walking, heels cautiously moving around the cracked bottles and greasy pizza cartons. She made it to the third apartment on the right side and, quickly jumping over the puddle right in front of the steps, ran up the stairs. She swiftly unlocked the door and walked in. 

The empty air heavily dropped down on her chest. Winnifred silently studied the apartment with her eyes. A narrow hallway embroidered with her junk tiptoed in front of her. Winnifred sighed and tossed her bag underneath her coats hanging on the wall, kicked her heels somewhere next to it, and walked into the living room. She collapsed on her miniature couch, legs resting on its handles. Her blue eyes passed the apartment once more. The second year was just beginning. She still couldn't get used to it. Winnifred didn't like the shape of ceiling lamp's glass flower shades, she hated the color of the bookshelf with barely enough books to live through the winter, and the rug stanching of cat food seemed out of place. Missus Haggard, the apartment's owner, was kind though. Grouchy, but kind. Speaking of, there she went, trotting into the living room. A stout, old woman in a simple, faded dress with a faded apron, the pink color barely seen from age and multiple culinary traumas it experienced. Her tan, crumpled with wrinkles, face squinted at the young woman. 

"Came back, did ya? Resting, huh?" 

Winnifred wordlessly unbuttoned her vest with one hand, silently watching her landlady. 

"Whose gonna do theses dishes? Does young lady expect the Roman himself to drag you from that couch? Get to work!" 

Winnifred obediently tossed her legs off the couch and, leaving her vest there, walked past Haggard. A slow smile crept over her face. Mrs. Haggard slapped her upper arm and threw her the apron. Winnifred chuckled and quickly tied the apron around her waist. The kitchen was small and also out of place, like everything else. Winnifred walked up to the sink and stared at the tiny, measly little cup half full with water-diluted coffee. Grinning under her breath, Winnifred turned on the faucet, filled the cup with water, and dumped it out. 

*** 

The light softly illuminated the bare room. The gritty blinds barely let that softness in. Yet it still awoke Johnathan. 

The doctor blinked. His fingers automatically touched the papers on his desk, eyes feverishly scanning the room, before calming down and sighing. He fell asleep while working again. Johnathan rubbed his eyes, knuckles inevitably moving his glasses up. The touch of the cool plastic triggered a sudden thought in him. Does he have glasses in his dreams? He never felt them because they were so natural to him. Never mind. 

Johnathan pushed back the chair and stood up. He quickly collected the papers on his desk into a folder and walked out. The Arkham Asylum corridors also became natural. For a while, these rustic walls surprisingly seemed very unnatural to the very much hated walls of the Local Hospital. The unlimited freedom to do anything was also unnatural. The first experiment on the convicted patient was unnatural. Him becoming the asylum's owner after Arkham's death was unnatural and surprising. However, everything unnatural soon becomes natural. 

Nonetheless, the DA Rachel Dawes with a cop following her walking down the hallway was pretty unnatural. Johnathan subdued the slight stir of amusement and calmly approached her. Johnathan stopped in front of them, slightly raising his eye brows. 

"You're quite early. Miss Dawes, how can I help you?" 

The woman defiantly held his gaze. 

"I assume you're Johnathan Crane, the asylum's owner after Jeremiah Arkham?" 

Johnathan indifferently shrugged. 

"You are correct, miss." There was a pause. Rachel crossed her arms on her chest, her cautious gaze never leaving his face. The police officer silently stood behind her. 

"You have criminal Waylon Jones under your custody?" Rachel coldly inquired. 

"Yes." 

"I need to interrogate him. The permission is with me. If you need permission, that is." 

Johnathan quietly smirked under his breath and turned around. 

"Follow me, please." 

He walked down the dimly illuminated hallways, sensing Dawes's irritation and pulsing suspicion behind him. Unlike all of those other so-called executors of the law, she was the only one who questioned his experiments at Arkham. Johnathan stopped next to a metal door and turned the key, quickly punching in the code after. The heavy door opened, exposing the brightly lit room. A tall, muscular man with almost reptilian features was confined to a chair in the middle. His small, blood-filled eyes darted at the people entering his room. 

"Good morning, Mister Jones," Johnathan quietly greeted the criminal. He turned to the district attorney behind him. 

"I'm afraid we have only one chair, Miss Dawes, and that one is already reserved. You'll have to stand." 

Rachel shot him a killing stare and walked up to Jones. She kneeled down to him, leveling their eyes. Johnathan crossed his hands behind his back, the shadows hiding his face. 

"Are you Waylon Jones?" Rachel quietly asked, eyes searching the crude face. The criminal glanced at her with contempt. Rachel pretended not to notice. 

"Did you murder the family on Sixth Avenue?" Jones was silent. Rachel narrowed her eyes, knuckles paling from propping up on her knees. 

"Did you murder Gabriel Calato, Anna Calato, and their children Felipe and Toto Calato?" 

Silence. Johnathan observed Rachel's face from the shadows; she was a great actress. Annoyance was rolling off of her in waves, yet none appeared on her face. 

"Jones, if you do not answer me you will face the law for disobeying a government official." 

Jones's rough lips curled into a short smile, the dry skin crackling at the motion. 

"I really don't see how my situation will be worsened." 

Rachel finally straightened up, lips twitching in irritation. There was a smirk. Johnathan wordlessly stepped in front of Rachel and lowered down on his knees, staring at Jones. Rachel rolled her eyes, but Johnathan pretended not to notice. 

"Are you Killer Croc?" 

There was a sound of crackling skin. 

"Yes." 

Rachel turned in surprise. Johnathan observed the criminal for a second. 

"Who were the Calatos? They were a mafia family, right?" 

Jones was silent for a moment, his eyes somewhere beyond Johnathan's shoulder. Then, he slowly nodded. Johnathan bit his lips, thinking something to himself. 

"Do you know who stands after it?" 

Jones's small eyes drilled into Jonathan's. 

"Why should I reveal them, Doctor?" He smirked. Johnathan shrugged. 

"Criminals do not have a sense of comradery which the police has, and you can easily kill any offenders if they have the courage to accuse you," he quietly noticed, eyes tiredly wandering on the walls above Jones's head. 

"Especially that you didn't kill them." 

Jones shrugged, relaxing against the chair. 

"I don't know." He glanced at Rachel. "I'd say it's the mafia which cocked them." 

Johnathan was staring to the side, before forcefully returning his gaze back at the criminal. 

"Anything else?" 

"Only that I don't what Tetch in my cage again." 

"Fair enough." Johnathan stood up and nodded to Rachel. "Anything else?" 

The woman glared at him in contempt for repeating the same question he said to a criminal. 

"No, I'm done." 

They silently walked out, and Johnathan closed the door. Rachel impatiently drummed her fingers on her crossed arms. 

"What was that?" She angrily asked after Johnathan turned away from the door. Johnathan lifted his eyebrows and began making his way down the corridor. 

"That was a properly conducted interrogation which government officials have now apparently lost the knack on. What were you thinking when you called him by his name?" 

"Oh, forgive me for not knowing _your_ criminal jargon," Rachel snorted, following him. 

"You should know it considering it's your job," Johnathan coldly retorted, dismissing her emphasis on your. He stopped next to his office and took out the keys. 

Rachel sarcastically tilted her head. 

"I'm afraid that if I'll learn the criminal book cover to cover, someone may not be able to keep his job." 

Johnathan leaned on the door and pushed it open, but didn't go in. 

"No need to worry, I can keep my job," he quietly noticed, looking at Rachel. The woman lifted her eyebrows. 

"Just like the one at the university?" 

"If you consider my goal of leaving it which was established since the first day of my lecturing, yes." 

Rachel squinted. 

"How do you know that Jones didn't kill the family?" 

"Because if Croc killed them, all of their bones would be broken. And since they died from knife stabs and not neck twisting, it's obviously not Croc." 

"Alright," Rachel parried,"Do you have any cooked up criminals which use knives as their killing mark?" 

Johnathan smirked. "Not yet." He entered his office and closed the door, indicating that their conversation was over. 

*** 

The light bulb nervously flickered in the garage. Little groups of people scattered around the metal room, suspiciously looking around. The lowest levels of Gotham, in their simple beauty. Leaning against the wall, an anorexic-looking punk monotonously tossed up and down a little pocketknife. Criss-crossed on the floor, a dirty woman with coarse facial features in her late thirties punched her magazine in and out of the gun. A young man facing the wall rocked on the two legs of his chair. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the garage seemed to change; it became alive. A few people entered. In front of them was a not very tall, not very stout, light olive-skinned man with burning eyes and a skull earring. He stepped out to the table in the center and silently scanned the room with his eyes. 

"Well." 

The dispersed groups instantly gathered around the table. The punk snapped his pocketknife shut and walked up to the larger group. The crude woman stood up and approached them as well. The young man continued tilting on his chair. The skull-ear in the center looked over the group again. 

"The Calato affair didn't go as well as planned," he quietly said in his low, husky voice. 

"Who was at post?" 

Everyone glanced at the punk. That one defensively spread his hands open. 

"Hey, I was only doin' my job! Lena was in charge of everything else!" 

"If you didn't make such a loud noise next to the trash bins, we wouldn't be in this fucking mess," the woman gritted through her teeth. 

"Fucking excuse me?" 

The skull-ear apathetically raised his hand. Both parties fell silent, still glaring at each other. 

"You know that our job requires no traces," skull-ear quietly noticed. His eyes ignited. 

"Lena, you worked here for twelve years, I'm not worried. Spockey, this is your last warning." 

"Gracias, Calavera," Lena sarcastically snarled. Spockey' face remained calm, but his tattoos seemed darker on the paling skin. 

"But that's not what I wanted to talk about," Calavera suddenly switched his tone, increasing the volume. 

"We have some new folks joining us. Jerry?" A long-limbed, pasty teenager stepped forward. Some strange animosity twisted within his face. 

"Folks, this is Jerry," Calavera amiably introduced him. "Jerry, why do you want to join?" 

"Because I like it," Gerry said, almost growled. There was a slight whisper around the crowd, agreement presumably. Calavera smirked and sat down on the chair rolled over by his henchman. 

"You like it? That's a fair reason. Did you ever do it?" 

Jerry was quiet for a moment. "No." 

"Of course," Lena quietly snorted. "Never did it. All of them don't." 

"No matter, we'll get him tuned," Calavera shrugged. "And what about you?" He inquired, addressing the man tilting on the chair. Everyone automatically turned his way. 

"Why are you interested?" 

The young man titled his head back, glancing at the ceiling, but didn't turn around. 

"It's the only job which I can get." 

"Whoa," someone in the crowd whistled. "That's desperate." Calavera ignored the jokester, curious and slightly annoyed. 

"Really? That's all?" 

"Did you even kill?" A burly man on the right spat. The "folks" next to him grumbled in agreement. The man suddenly turned on his chair. Lena sucked in her breath. Two long scars stretched from the young man's lips. This horrid picture was unnervingly diluted by a little cat purring in the man's arms. The man stood up and walked over the table. 

"Those squealers didn't want to hear a word when they saw 'em," Heath sighed, letting little Magdalena jump from his arms. The little cat happily began jogging on the table. 

"And I killed nine people." 

*** 

The branches slashed across his face as he ran through the woods. The dark figures slammed into his eye, he heard his shuddering breath echo in his head. His foot tripped over a root. The damp, freezing soil pressed into his face, burning against the scorching tears. His raw scars scalded as the cold dirt seeped into the bare muscle. Winnifred was afraid of him. She was afraid that he might kill her. His little, poor girl.... he kills only one per night. Billy was already dead. The sweaty fingers dug into the soil, the dirt satisfactorily tricking in between his fingers. He has to kill her for her. How did she not understand that? He felt the ashy taste of ground in his mouth. His stomach turned, vomit creeping up his throat. Freddie hates him. By God, she does. 

Heath jolted awake, drops of sweat streaming next to his eye down the left side of his nose. Lena curiously stared at him from the table, her short tail wrapped around her paws. Heath stared back at her, trying to understand. After a few seconds, the present slowly returned to him. He seemed to have fallen asleep while sitting on the chair, one leg still pushing the table's edge. Heath's eyes traveled down on the blank piece of paper in front of him. Sighing, he pushed away from the table with his leg, the chair rolling under him, and stood up. 

"C'mon," he gestured to the cat. Lena happily jumped up and trotted with him outside. 

The night was cold, like any November night. Heath pulled over an old crate and sat down, observing the starry night. Thousands of empty garages surrounded him, endless metal stretching in front of the tired eyes. Heath absently stroked Lena's fine hair as she purred next to his thigh. His eyes lowered on the ground, a used cigarette stamped into the soil. Automatically, Heath picked it up, but didn't bring it up to his lips. Instead, he simply observed it. His lips practically itched from the desire to feel the dry paper and the calming effect of the smoke in his mouth, but at the same time, the image of pale cyanide scattered around the wooden floor stood in front of his eyes. 

A minute passed. 

Heath wordlessly tossed the cigarette aside and, crossing his arms on his knees, lowered his chin. Lena stirred next to him, but when he didn't respond, offendedly left back into the garage. Heath vacantly stared at the rusty garage wall in front of him. He didn't remember how he came back to Gotham. Everything was in a fog of rage, bitterness, madness, complete with a random track playing in his head, occasionally interrupted with gunshots. Heath found Lena wandering lonely on the streets and picked her up. She didn't mind. She remembered him. Then, Heath tried to find a job. But the scars ruined everything. No matter how he groveled, no matter how brave the employers were, the scars immediately introduced him as an "untrustworthy street-fighter". That's why Heath came to Calavera. Leader of hit men. Kill-for-money. 

Someone in the further down garages put on music. Heath closed his eyes and quietly rocked to the tune. He knew that Johnathan was somewhere in this strange town. Heath didn't want to find him. He was tired. Heath opened his dark-circled eyes and walked back into the garage. He needed to get some sleep. Sammy appeared in his dreams yesterday. Heath wondered who it would be today. Charlotte? Jacob?.... 

.... It was Mark. He was happily whistling to himself, the pot dangling in his hand. Heath silently watched him kneel down to the river, the cold water gurgling and banging against the metal pot. Heath felt sweat drip down from his hair. Mark straightened out and walked back to the camp. Heart wildly beating against his throat, Heath followed. Charlotte was wrapped in a strange, pleated blanket next to the fire. Riley was wearing a bright red cap with the words GOTHAM LOCALS. He was cooking completely burnt sausages on a bright pink frying pan. Heath slowly scanned the campsite, relief unclenching his rib cage. 

Then, he saw Winnifred. 

She stood behind the fire. Heath's fingers automatically turned into curled fists. Please, not again. But as he slowly lifted his gaze on her face, Heath saw the same horror locked in her features. 

Billy suddenly came up behind her and slapped her by the shoulders. 

"Did you have a good night sleep, dear?" He jokingly asked. Winnifred didn't answer. Billy glanced in confusion at where she was staring, then looked back. 

"What is it, Freddie?" 

Winnifred didn't answer again. She simply stood, burning Heath to the core. 

Lena, unsuccessfully scrambling up his shoulder, slipped and fell down on the bed, swatting Heath's face with her tail. Heath's eyelids shuddered and he opened his eyes. Lena apologetically meowed. A low chuckle escaped Heath's throat. He sat up, passing his hand over his sweaty forehead. Pressing his back against the wall, he closed his eyes. _It was cold that afternoon. He was sitting on the counter in his gun shop, writing a letter to Winnifred with a dying pen._ Heath slid off the bed and walked barefoot to his shelf. Shuffling through the letters, he found the one from that day and pulled it out to the light. There were only scratches on the paper, occasionally ripped by blue streaks of ink, but Heath could perfectly tell out the coarse words: 

_Dear Freddie,_

_The days and nights are getting cold. It makes my nose run. It’s annoying._

_How’re the people down there? Still okay?_

He remembered cursing through his teeth as he pressed harder and harder into the paper, nearly ripping it, pouring out his frustration. 

_I have no idea what is going on. I work in the gun shop, eat, sleep, and that’s about it. Not much, right? But my mind is going in circles, like rolling eyes._

Heath’s eyes flickered down, and he placed the letter back onto the shelf. _There was some noise in the storage room. He thought it was some drunk bum or something.... A hand flew right for his face. Heath rapidly ducked down, but he was caught unaware. The thugs used his clumsiness, and a fist crashed right into his jaw. His scars roared, blinding him for a second, two pairs of hands gripped both of his arms, and Heath was forced on his knees. Heath slightly shook his head and focused his vision. Falcone, in a black, long coat, was standing in front of him. Heath’s bloodied lips stretched into a grin._

_“Falcone? I thought mafiosi walk through the main entrance.”_

_“Not this time,” Falcone smirked, eyes traveling around. Heath slightly tilted his head, squinting his eyes._

_“The chair is behind the boxes, you know.”_

_“Yes?” Falcone quickly glanced at him, before craning his neck over the boxes filled with weaponry. Heath silently waited while the mafiosi to drag over the chair and sit down, placing one leg over another. Falcone folded his hands and fixed his piercing gaze on Heath._

_“The scars suit you.”_

_Heath was silent. The mafiosi smirked._

_“A gun shop clerk? A bit better than a drifter between drug dealers. Awkward, isn’t it, knowing that I established your current comfortable position?”_

_“I liked being a drifter,” Heath quietly noticed. Falcone leaned forward, a threatening smile on his dry lips._

_“And what did your friend say about your drifting? Liked it, didn’t she?”_

_Heath preferred to stay quiet. Falcone leaned back against the chair, dark eyes glistening._

_“I saw her, you know, a couple of days ago. She was looking for you.”_

_Heath’s eyes flickered upwards, gaze hardening. Poor, poor, foolish Freddie._

_“What did you do to her?”_

_Falcone shrugged, carefully watching Heath._

_“Nothing. Scared her a little so she would keep her nose out of the business.”_

_Heath held back a heavy sigh of relief, sensing that he was being watched. Cautiously, he made out a taut smile._

_“You didn’t beat me just to talk about Fre-my friend, didn’t you sir?” Falcone stood up._

_“No. Take him to the car,” he ordered._ Heath lifted his eyes back again; he lunged towards the shelf and began tossing out the letters, crumpling their edges with his spasmodic fingers, carelessly dropping him to the floor. _The room was completely dark. They pushed him into the chair, simultaneously tying his hands behind his back with a belt. Heath licked his lips, eyes darting from side to side. Suppressed fear sucked on his insides, sharpening each object. There was something in front of him. Heath squinted his eyes. Slowly, the darkness in front of the wall turned into a translucent wall - actually a wall with glass imprinted in it. There was something behind the glass, but Heath couldn’t tell out what. His wrists ached and the dried up blood awkwardly wedged in the corner of his lips._

_“Ready, Mister Heath?” Falcone’s breath shuddered next to his ear. Stay calm, pain is only in the mind anyway..._

_“Ready.” Heath mentally prepared himself for anything, quietly pulling in the air with his nose. The light switched on behind the glass. The breath hitched inside his throat. Robbie was staring across the glass, large green eyes bulging in fright. He shouted something, but the glass muted his words._

_“We spared you of the full spectacle,” Falcone smirked._

_“Damned fuckers,” Heath coarsely said, not tearing his eyes off of Robbie. The little boy was so scared, that he even didn’t mind the scars smiling across him._

_Falcone leaned in close._

_“We’ve caught you, boy. Do you want to know what waits for you?”_

_Heath didn’t answer. Instead, he wronged his arms, trying to loosen the belt. A gun was tucked in Falcone’s pocket, he just needs to get to the gun... then , a figure appeared behind Robbie._

_Everything blended._

_Muted screams that shook the walls, blood splattering in uneven droplets over the glass, the tiny body wringing in agony as it tried to get away._

_Tears._

_Tears streaming down Robbie’s twisting, demented face._

_Heath silently watched. His eyes felt dry, as if being touched, just lightly, with the back of a heated frying pan. They refused to watch it, he refused to see it, but he couldn’t close them - it was what Falcone wanted. But the worst were the screams. Heath could hear them in his head; the little, boyish yell that escalates higher and higher like a police siren, breaking and choking and unbearable...._

_They grew tired. It was only half an hour, but they were already tired of the little boy. The figures slipped a nylon cord around Robbie’s pulsing, alive neck and began squeezing and squeezing, in an agonizing, slow way..._

_.... The belt finally ripped at his wrists, he jumped up, grabbed the gun hanging at Falcone’s side. The first shot smashed the glass, the second killed the first figure, the third shot killed Robbie, and the fourth shot killed the second figure. Then, the gun was taken away from him, his hand was twisted, and Falcone’s snobbish smile hovered over his head._

_“Unpleasant? I know it was disturbing to watch. But, what is small Mister Robbie Hales compared to Mister Hardy... or Miss Hutchinson... or Ms. Lewly?” Heath didn’t answer, eyes slanted somewhere to the left. Falcone slightly squinted his eyes, before nodding to the thugs. They let Heath go. The young man silently stood up, eyes hidden by the shadows._

_“Remember this, boy. I bet you want to kill me now, but I can guarantee that you’ll be shot down before you make it even a mile in front of my porch. And I'll still kill your friends. Painfully.”_

__Heath didn’t answer. Falcone nodded to the thugs._ _

__

__

_“Guide him to the exit,” he ordered. The thugs dragged Heath through the corridor, but once he saw the metal door, he struggled up, freed his arms, and walked out on his own. The stench of Gotham’s morning air declawed in front of Heath like a breathing organism._ Heath found it. It wasn’t even necessary to toss everything out, it was just above his previous letter. 

_Dear Winnifred,_

_They started with the arms. They always do. They wrung his bones like you wring out skirts after picking them off the clothesline...._

_....They’ll get everyone. They’ll get everyone. They’ll get everyone. Heath staggered to the side, sneakers slipping over greasy cardboard on the asphalt, occasionally hitting some junk out of the way. Robbie’s screams were dancing in his head, tapping on his brain with their heavy feet.... Then they moved over to the nails. Needles, Winnifred. Needles under the nails. Robbie was crying so hard, he twitched and fidgeted, but that made it worse, that made the needles move side to side inside._ Heath dropped the letter on the floor and started towards the doors.

“Come,” he motioned to the cat. Lena cheerfully picked her pink nose up from the letters and, hopping and inevitably slipping over them, ran up to his side. They walked out into the alley, barely illuminated by the lampposts. Heath silently breathed with mouth slightly open, cooling down the scalding scars. They burnt a couple of days, probably from his habit of ripping skin off of them. A cloud of his breath lingered in front of him, dissipating before he could even walk through it. 

After Robbie, Heath drank himself to oblivion. Hangover was followed by frightening apathy. That's when he killed Lucy and Ramey. And after that, Heath didn’t remember: lurking in alleys, hiding in stashes, running, always running. After awhile, he noticed Falcone’s men following him. He killed them. Hesitantly the first time. Decisively the second. They killed Robbie, they’d kill him too. More alleys, more stashes. Crows flying above the head. 

Heath stopped next to a brick wall falling back in forth between the shadows. A Mickey Mouse with a skull instead of that sappy, cheery face stared at them with his large, lamppost-like eyes, teeth glaring in a devilish grin. 

“Look Lena,” Heath quietly said. “What a lovely piece of artwork.” Lena just arched her back and squirmed, hissing from the cold. Heath glanced down in amusement, before picking her up with a short chuckle. Lena purred, ducking her head into his coat, her brown hairs still standing up. Heath stroked her, examining the graffitti. Among the neon flashing streets and passing cars on the road, there was only one thought - he should’ve killed Robbie before anything started. Robbie died anyways, so it didn’t matter if he died half an hour earlier, but without that horrid sadism. His hand slowed down, stroking hardening down to clawing. Jack was easy, Jack was just a continuation of the anger and hatred from Robbie’s murder. It was Jack that took the kid, Heath was sure of it. On Hallow’s Eve, when he saw Jack, it was just an impulse. Mark wasn’t an impulse. Neither was Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, or Billy. Heath’s eyes turned cold, breathing becoming slower. Winnifred was. His mind told him to kill her, but impulse told otherwise. Out of all the people. He saved them. He didn’t save her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanations, like I promised!  
> By the way, it's not a memory failure that I named both the kitten and the woman Lena. Also, they're pronounced differently. The kitten "Lena" has a long "e", like in "leaning". The woman "Lena" has a short "e", like in "head".  
> Well, hoped you enjoyed, folks! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!


	31. Part 4: Road To Hell - Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, folks, I had a really busy day, but here's the chapter!   
> Three cameos in this one which I don't own! (I will say that I own Gefoltert, but without further spoiling, let's dive right in!)   
> And thank you, thank you, thank you to my readers. Man, there's just not enough "thank you's" for you guys. :)

Winnifred was too tired to slap her portfolio with full force on the table, so instead she just quietly lowered it down. Reese wiped her hot-blonde hair to her colleague. 

"Hey, did you hear the news?" She asked, eyes wide in burning desire to talk. Winnifred sarcastically raised her eyebrows. 

"What, Judge Faden's clerk was bribed?" 

"No, dummy," Reese snapped in exasperation. "Young Wayne's back! He took back the company!" 

Winnifred processed the information for a second with slightly pursed lips, then shrugged and calmly sat down. 

"Cool." 

"My lord, Winnifred, don't you understand the significance of this?" Reese moaned in irritation. Winnifred smirked, flipping her papers. 

"As long as it doesn't concern me, it doesn't have any significance," she hid her smile while punching in numbers in her calculator. 

"Think about it! We're being transferred from an old, boring fifty-year old to a hot, eccentric twenty-nine year old!" 

"Oh god, that's how companies fall apart," Winnifred sadly exhaled. "I'll have to start posting advertisements in the papers." 

"This is not a joke," Reese growled, noticing Winnifred's cheery face. 

"Of course it's not," Winnifred easily agreed, covering her face with her papers to conceal the grin. Luckily, her phone rang at that moment. Winnifred shot Reese one last joking glance before picking it up. 

"Yes... the documentations about the company's financial status for the past two... of course. Alright. I'll be here right over." 

"Who is it?" Reese asked as soon as Winnifred lowered the receiver. 

"The head honcho," Winnifred sighed, gathering up some documents from her drawer. 

"Damn, why is it always me who has the documents?" 

"Maybe you're lucky," Reese shrugged, turning back to her computer and curling her hair over her finger. Winnifred gave her a strange look and walked by. 

Jack's bank and Gotham Outskirts Financial Unit was nothing compared to this massive giant of glass and style. Thousands of hallways, lavish elevators, lobbies and cabinets with wall-long windows. Winnifred always felt uncomfortable as she walked in this building. It made her feel small and insignificant. And despite the understanding that the humanity is itself insignificant to the galaxy, Winnifred still didn't like to feel like a petty, little, useless fly. 

The elevator swiftly stopped in front of her. The door opened with a light swoosh. The elevator was cramped with people. Winnifred pressed down a sigh and wordlessly walked in. Old janitor Mister Rodriguez glanced at her. 

"Which number?" He gruffly said in his thick accent. Winnifred desperately tried to keep her body from the doors' sliding pathway. 

"Fifty five, please," she shot, heels balancing on the edge. The doors shut behind her. Winnifred pressed the folder to her skirt, trying not to look at the person she was pressuring from the front. The elevator wordlessly shook. Rodriguez's cart uncomfortably poked Winnifred into the side. Winnifred tried not to breathe so loudly, eyes glued to the side on someone's shoes. 

"Thirty-five," the woman's voice dictated. Winnifred pressed her lips. The doors opened, and she walked out, allowing the janitor cart, Rodriguez, and two more people to roll out. Winnifred then instantly took the open place near the left wall next to a young man. Five more people entered. The elevator doors closed once more. Winnifred felt the folder getting wet from her sweat and quietly cursed inside her head. Something has to go wrong one way or another. Winnifred impatiently shifted from one foot to another. 

By the fiftieth floor, there were just a couple of people left. Sighing, Winnifred allowed herself to tilt her head back at the wall. From half-open lids, she glanced at the man next to her. Strange, he seemed new, even for Winnifred's poor ability to memorize faces. Winnifred smirked, closing her eyes. Maybe he's Bruce Wayne, the billionaire who has been dead for seven years. Oh well. He's not as hot as her guys at the Outskirts. 

"Fifty-five." 

Winnifred pushed off and walked out, well aware that the young man followed her. More so, he followed her even as she turned the corner. Damn, the probability that he is the billionaire Bruce Wayne was getting more and more realistic. Despite her sweaty hands and fading courage, Winnifred smirked. Heath's voice echoed in her head; try to think of more creative options. Then you won't feel nervous because the person's real identity is way off your monstrous creativity. 

"Good morning, Muriel," Winnifred greeted the secretary at the door. Muriel tiredly looked up. 

"Hey there. Boss's having a meeting." 

"Well, Boss asked me to come with this," Winnifred lifted up her folder,"so screw the meeting." The young man quietly smirked behind her. Muriel glanced over Winnifred's shoulder. 

"And the lad? 

"The lad..." Winnifred turned around, trying to find the words. 

"Boss asked me to come too," The Lad hastily helped her out. 

"Yeah," Winnifred quickly concluded, turning back to Muriel. 

"Well, Muriel?" 

Muriel shrugged. 

"Go ahead." 

The young man was already at the door, holding it open for Winnifred. She shortly smiled and entered. The room was quiet when she walked it, so Winnifred assumed she fittingly entered at a pause. Her eyes quickly found CEO William Earle standing next to one of the chair. 

"Sir, I fetched you the documents you asked for." Winnifred quietly walked over, handing over the folder. 

"Thanks, Lewly," Earle curtly thanked her, eyeing the young man behind her. 

"Can you also grab the documents from the records institution?" 

Winnifred lifted her brows. That was a block away. 

"Don't you have secretaries to do that?" 

Earle silently glanced up at her. Winnifred swallowed her pride. 

"Do you need them immediately, sir, or can I take my time?" 

"I need them before the work day ends," Earle grouched and turned away from her, indicating that their conversation was over. Winnifred sighed and turned around to leave. She passed the young man, shortly glancing at him. He answered her with a curious, sympathetic look. Winnifred couldn't hold back from rolling her eyes and flung the doors open. She gritted her teeth another fifty five stories down in a cramped elevator, before practically running towards her desk next to Reese. 

"Where you going? Don't forget, we're meeting up with Robbie at Joey's" The blondie asked in dull curiosity. Winnifred tightly pulled her waistband around her grey, checkered trench coat. 

"Records Institution." 

Reese whistled, chuckling at the same time. 

"So to fat-old Gefoltert," Reese shook her head and smirked. 

"Who?" Winnifred lifted her eyebrows, tucking her scarf in her collar. 

"Geffy," Reese drawled with a broad grin. "One of the big bucks in town. Early doesn't know of course." 

"And you know?" Winnifred specified, flinging her bag over her shoulder. Reese indifferently shrugged, chewing on the tip of her pen. 

"Don't tell me you never had any business with the mafiosi," she responded, pushing of the table's leg and twirling in her chair. Winnifred smirked, deciding not to answer, and walked out of the desk. Reese abruptly stopped herself by clinging onto the table's edge. 

"Wait, you did, right?" 

"Maybe, maybe not," was the airy answer, dulled by the sound of shutting doors. 

*** 

Winnifred heavily sighed, her breath forming into a small cloud which dissipated into thin air. It was cold. Winnifred had a feeling that it won't be long before winter. She automatically snug her hands into her pockets, crumpling her fingers into her cold palms. The wind swatted the small, billowing parts of the scarf which weren't fully tucked into the coat right into her face. Winnifred pushed the flapping scarf down in irritation, stopping in front of the intersection. Her eyes quickly passed over the words carved onto the street signs. _Willows Avenue, Fourth Boulevard, Harold Street_. Automatically translated into _This Way, That Way, The Other Way_. Winnifred decided to use _That Way_ , so she quickly crossed the buzzing road. Hardly making it out of the car's way, Winnifred fixed her coat and glanced at the buildings in front of her. Painfully recalling her memory, her feet uncertainly walked her over to the... was it the third or the fourth? Damn it, all the skyscrapers look the same. It was so much easier back there, Jacob's house had geranium literally all over the left wall, Sammy had a old hovel bursting with all of the possible junk like broken bicycles, Lottie always had some laundry out while light, yellow from age curtain laces blew out from the window of Billy's apartment.... Cut it out. Who cares which skyscraper it is? After all, if she goes into the wrong one, she'll simply excuse herself and go to the other one. Problem solved. 

Winnifred, suddenly gritting her teeth, knocked the door of the third skyscraper. Instantly, she knew that she entered the wrong one. What mafiosi would ever decorate their walls with such.... phenomenally hideous wallpaper having no contrast with the red, velvet carpet? Nonetheless, Winnifred walked up to the receptionist, keeping her eyes off the walls to suppress her disgust. 

"Good morning, is this Wayne Records Institution?" 

The male secretary glanced up at her. 

"Yes. How can I help you?" Oh. Surprising. 

"I need to see Mister..." Winnifred bit her lip, trying to remember the name. 

"Mister Geffy, please." 

The secretary raised his eyebrows. 

"Are you from Calavera?" 

"What? No, I'm from Earle. Wayne Enterprises" Winnifred stumbled over her words. The secretary indifferently nodded and stood up. 

"Very well. Follow me, I'll lead you to Mister Gefoltert." Gefoltert. Gefoltert, Gefoltert, Gefoltert, Winnifred kept on replaying in her head. In a moment, she was face to face with Geff-Gefoltert. Winnifred's eyes quickly darted him over, lips mumbling something about Earle and documents. Her eyes never stopped moving. Gefoltert was a tall, bulky man with six chins and a shiny suit. Nothing different from an ordinary rich business dealer. The world sure knows how to be sarcastic. 

*** 

His fingers thoughtfully twirled the deep purple flower, the petals falling in and out of the shadows. This little flower contained the toxin he has been fabricating and perfecting for years. His lips twisted into a cynical smirk. It’s ironic sometimes, when everything you’ve done your entire life is reduced to ash in a couple of seconds. 

Johnathan sighed and tossed the flower on the table. That strange man, Raz al Ghul, offered an entire fortune for a fear toxin. His eyes slanted to the left on the letter lying right next to the flower. It was a short letter from Raz with with only five words: _Falcone will transport the flower._ A nerve twitched near the edge of the lips, acutely reminding Johnathan of the contagious, bloody smile. He didn’t know if it was Falcone or some other thug dealer who cut Heath up, but he didn’t want to know. Falcone did enough. 

Sighing, Johnathan stood up and quietly closed the door behind him. The yellow-haired intern was waiting for him outside. 

"Patient 328 is still cowering in the corner," she promptly notified him, glancing at her clipboard. "Still thinks that the Bogeyman will get him." 

"That makes five days," Johnathan quietly muttered to himself, quickly checking his watch. 

"Will you see him?" 

"No, that's enough patients for today," Johnathan glanced up at the young girl. 

"Make sure to check up on Patient 36 and 185." 

"Yes, Doctor." 

Johnathan thanked with a nod. He quickly grabbed his coat from his office and, putting it on on his way, stepped out of the asylum. It was around six o'clock. The traffic was bad as ever, the city illuminated with a kaleidoscope of red and white car lights. Johnathan warily eyed the cramped street and hurriedly walked around the cars, ignoring the honks and gestures the drivers saluted him. Johnathan tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat, breathing in the scent of tiptoeing winter. In a couple of weeks, everything would be covered in snow. Johnathan didn't like the winter. He didn't like the feeling of the ground sinking under him. The young doctor glanced upwards at the sign of the building. JOEY'S LITTLE BAR. Johnathan pushed open the door. 

The scent of wine and music was so abrupt that Johnathan had to stop and adjust his senses. Squinting, he looked over the familiar room, packed from wall to wall with talking, laughing people and their glasses with drinks. The walls were draped in dark, berry-soaked red, shaded lamps erecting from the walls. The speakers were blasted light jazz. Johnathan quickly walked up on the second floor, more centered on lonely tables framing a dance floor. Dancers occupied most of the space. Johnathan chose the small, squared table next to the large window. A waitress instantly approached him. 

"Would you like anything to drink, sir?" 

"Coffee, please." 

The waitress disappeared into the crowd. Johnathan wearily rubbed his forehead and absently flicked his lighter. The small fire waved from the hole, almost invisible in the bar's vibrant colors. Johnathan tiredly observed it for a few seconds, before raising his eyes up on the crowd. The red, round-faced bartender was pouring the heavy beer into a tall glass. Two bulky men in black leather jackets and torn jeans were loudly talking to each other on the end of the bar stand. There was a couple dancing next to the wall, their faces so close together that it was impossible to tell their features. The furthest table across Johnathan was playing poker. A young woman with deep, dark-brown hair and blue eyes absently smiled at a joke.... Johnathan's eyes narrowed before widening in recognition. At her left was a young man with thick, brown curls. In front of her sat a woman with dyed blonde hair. She somewhat covered her table partner with her back, yet not enough for Johnathan not to recognize. Freddie Lewly. Johnathan thoughtfully raised the cigarette up to his lips, not sensing the nicotine with his numb tongue. 

She was so mature. Her hand absently propped up the left side of her head, eyes locked somewhere in the distance. Cards rested on her thin fingers, arm lying on the table. The smoke cooled in Johnathan's mouth, and he absently breathed it out. Her self control was remarkable; only an expert psychologist or an overly-intuitive individual could see the skinny veins of boredom in her eyes. The man said something funny. The blonde girl went kneeling on the table from laughter, while Winnifred roughly smiled. Johnathan frowned. He could not recognize her. All of her usual addictive vigor seemed to be suppressed in that cold, unauthentic grimace. 

The curly man suddenly turned his head towards her and quietly offered her something. Winnifred, actually, smiled and shook her head. Then, she nodded towards the blonde, coupling her gesture with some remark. The young man blushed and politely turned towards the other girl. The blondie happily stood up and the two left towards the dance floor, leaving Winnifred alone. Johnathan felt unusual anxiety scramble up his throat as Winnifred tiredly tossed the cards on the table and leaned back on her chair. This was his chance. The short cigarette crumbled out of his fingers. Johnathan stood up and started making his way towards her table. In the meantime, Winnifred was wearily flipping cards upside down and moving them around, obviously not interested in what she was doing. Johnathan gripped the chair where the blonde one sat, silently watching Freddie. She did not look up. 

"Do you mind if I sit here?" 

Winnifred abruptly looked up, the queen of diamonds between her fingers. 

For a moment, she didn't say anything, too astounded to speak. 

"Johnathan?" Winnifred quietly asked, slowly lowering down the card. Johnathan wordlessly drew out a chair and sat down in front of her. 

“I am very glad to see you,” he kindly said. Winnifred’s eyelids quickly rose upward, before lowering down again, and her astonishment melted into a timid smile. 

“So am I,” she softly replied. Her eyes carefully avoided meeting his, as if uncertain how to hold themselves. Johnathan’s face shadowed, eyes trying to penetrate her mask. 

“You don’t seem very comfortable with me here.” 

For the first time, Winnifred lifted her eyes and held the gaze. 

“It’ll go away.” Her lips stretched into a smile, a genuine smile. “After all, I thought I’ll never see you. Especially since you don’t like writing letters.” 

Johnathan chuckled. This time, it was his turn to look down. 

“I’m sorry. I should have.” 

“No. I mean, it wasn’t necessary. I couldn’t write anyway.” 

“Why not?” 

Winnifred thoughtfully looked at him. In the dim lighting of the bar, her face seemed to be swallowed by the shadows, making her large blue eyes look hollow. Her hand, pale and laced with green veins, began to tremble. Johnthan caught the motion. Carefully, he stretched out his hand and gently lowered it on hers. 

“It was horrible,” she quietly said. “It was-” she squeezed her eyes together, and clear tears ran down her cheeks. 

“Freddie-” Johnathan started, but Winnifred interrupted him. 

“No, Johnny you don’t understand. You will never understand. He killed us. One by one.” 

Johnathan’s hand slowly slipped off of hers. Through the tears, Winnifred expectantly stared at him as his features sharpened, as if his skin was sucked inside. 

“I don’t believe it.” It was not what he was supposed to say. But he had nothing else. He could not believe it. Winnifred painfully smirked, looking away and sniffing her tears into her sleeve. 

“Then you see we missed nothing when we didn’t write to each other,” she whispered. Johnathan’s eyes wandered across the room. Rugged, red lamps, women in flashing dresses, light beams from the projectors falling on the glasses, clear champagne.... Heath’s contagious, blood ripped smile and wild eyes looking for that dead crow appeared inside his mind. 

“How did he explain himself?” He finally asked. Winnifred glanced at him in disgust. 

“There’s nothing better you can ask?” She inquired in disdain. 

“No.” 

Winnifred sighed. It echoed above the table, over the napkins and the glasses’ round surfaces, over the forgotten cards. 

“He didn’t say,” Winnifred quietly replied, fingers unconsciously tapping on the table. Heath’s distorted, agonized eyes slashed across her brain. 

“He wanted to do something. But he couldn’t.” He wanted to kill you, Johnathan immediately thought. Judging by her face, Winnifred was thinking of the same thing. Sighing, he stood up. Her face immediately lost its sadness. 

“Where are you going?” she anxiously asked, not wanting to let go. Johnathan sadly smiled. 

“For a walk. C’mon, let’s go.” 

Winnifred hesitated, but then took his hand. 

It was refreshing to go out into the freezing air. Arm wrapped around Johnathan’s elbow, Winnifred’s eyes aimlessly traced the passing cars and the switching traffic lights. She did not know what the man next to her was thinking. But, despite the bitterness, for once, she was.... not happy, but rather satisfied. 

"Are you a doctor now?" Winnifred asked, watching with belated entertainment how a cloud of air comes out of her mouth. 

"Yes. I work at Arkham Asylum." 

She raised her brows in surprise. That was unexpected. 

"So you did make it out of that university job?" 

"I did," Johnathan decided not to go in detail about his real reasons for leaving the university. 

"And you?" Noticing how Winnifred frowns in confusion, Johnathan hastened to make himself clear. 

"I mean, where do you work now?" 

"Oh. Wayne Enterprises, top accountants." 

Johnathan nodded his head. 

“Profitable?” 

“Quite.” 

They reached a crosswalk. Shivering in her coat, Winnifred pressed closer to Johnathan. 

“I never want to see him again,” she quietly said. Johnathan glanced down at her. Her face was red from the cold, and her eyes were glassy. She was thinking about Heath the entire walk. Johnathan smirked to himself. Damn, even he was thinking about Heath the entire walk. And that he should have contacted him after Hallow’s Eve. Why, why does he realize everything after it already occurred? 

“You do,” he answered instead. Winnifred raised her head, eyes shimmering both with defiance and hidden fear. 

“He’s a murderer,” she enunciated with a shaking voice. 

“He’s your friend. That’s why you didn’t report him to the police.” Johnathan sighed. Winnifred looked away, fingers pressing into his arm. Johnathan knew she would never do that. He himself would never do that. Despite everything that happened, there was that painful and sickly string of friendship that tied them together.


	32. Part 4: Road To Hell - Chapter 3

_Dearest Freddie,_

_I just want to get that crow. It's ridiculous. I don't know what it is, yet I want it. It's slipping out of my fingers right when I catch it, I swear I can feel it's feathers on my skin inside my palm._

_When a bird first learns how to fly, it cannot unlearn how to fly. When a shark first smells blood, it cannot forget how it smells. I got used to killing. Before it was a necessity, then it became desperation, for you guys it was protection, and now I don’t know. I don’t care. Life has its undeniable gems, but there’s too much cracks in them to make life worth it, especially human life._

Heath blankly stared at the canned tomato sauce, then abruptly tossed it into the cart. He wheeled over to the next section. One after another, with either short or long intervals, a bushel of apples landed next to the sauce, followed by a pack of thin-stripped spaghetti, a milk carton, sausages, cucumbers, napkins, and a couple of water bottles. 

"Cash," Heath curtly answered before the adolescent, acne-ridden cashier asked. The teenager quickly glanced at him. What, am I that frightening? 

Heath wordlessly gave over fifty dollars, patiently waiting for his five dollar change. The teenager stuttered over the green bills, frantically counting them over. Heath silently took them and walked out of the shaggy, local drug store. 

The morning was glummer than usual. Heath's feet automatically turned right without even forcing him to think. Everything became automatic after he killed Lucy, that cheery bargirl. Every second was a monotonous repetition of the previous one. Then he came back home and just the simple understanding of that fact pulsed intoxicating, agonizing juice into the blood. And now the gramophone record was going for the second round. Heath's eyes flickered right and left across the street. He was about to take a step when he heard someone call something familiar. 

"Hey, Joker-guy!" Was that to me? Heath wordlessly turned around, left hand in his pocket, right clutching the grocery bag, pale red scars smiling for him. A close-to-forty-year old woman with crude features walked over to him, a heavy sports bag dragging her shoulders down. Her lips were similarly twisted in a rough grin. She was holding a cup of coffee. 

"Good morning, man," the woman smirked. It took Heath awhile to remember her name. Strange, her name should've been easy to remember. 

"Lena." 

"Yes," Lena mockingly confirmed, bringing the cup to her lips. "Took you a while." 

"I already have enough useless information to remember," Heath commented, glancing at her bag, 

"If you don't mind," he didn't wait for her approval and flung her bag over his shoulder. Lena smirked. 

"You're quite a gentlemen despite your appearance." 

"Habit." 

Heath quickly glanced back and forth and crossed the street, Lena silently crossing with him. 

"So how did you end up working for Calavera?" Heath asked, not particularly interested. Lena shrugged. 

"My previous employer was murdered by him. Calavera offered me a job as a compensation. 

"Compensation?" Heath bemusedly lifted his eyebrows, turning the corner. 

"I'm a good one, been a good one for twenty years. Five under Falcone, three under Starkson, twelve under Calavera." 

"Impressive." 

Lena nodded, examining the man next to "her from the corners of her eyes. 

"How do you go by? You never mentioned your name." 

"Neither did you," Heath smirked, eyes scanning the street signs. 

"Fuck you," Lena snorted. Her eyes strangely sparked. "Very well, Mister Joker. You don't mind taking a trip to a special place of mine since you're carrying my bag?" How quick are people to take advantage. 

"Sure," Heath shrugged instead. Lena shortly grinned in gratitude, before falling quiet. They continued walking in silence. Lena seemed to have lost the interest in Heath, while he was lost in thought; Lena was a reviving sip, no doubt. She was still part of the four Gotham walls closing in on Heath, but instead of having the same striped design, she was covered in polka-dots. 

"Stop," Lena suddenly ordered. Heath obediently halted, looking around. The crumpled leaves trembled on the rocky asphalt unevenly placed on the crooked road. A heavy, stinging stench pressed the air with its mallet. Heath's eyes slowly traveled at the building they were standing in front of. 

"You wanted to come to Arkham Asylum?" He finally asked. Lena shot him a sideways glance. 

"What, you never heard of old Arkham?" She sarcastically raised her eyebrows. 

"No, I just never imagined that a person like you needs rehabilitation treatments. Morality maybe, but I don't think Arkham specializes on that." 

"How quick you're to judge people," Lena retorted, walking up to the door. 

"Questionable," Heath hid his grin. "You gave me a name before we even spoke." 

Lena made a face and showed a middle finger to him. Then, she pushed the door open, not bothering to hold it for Heath. He quietly laughed under his breath, entering sideways. A change indeed. 

Heath didn't feel any temperature change between the cold street and the room they entered. It was dimly illuminated, the walls smothering the faint light. The desk behind the glass counter was devoid of any receptionist. 

"And?..." Heath dared to ask. "Is this your special place?" 

Lena wordlessly scanned the walls and walked up to the counter. Her hand flatly landed on the ringer bell. A timid, barely audible jingle climbed up into the air before collapsing back down. Heath's gaze glided over the room again. He sighed and, lowering his bags, sat down in one of the ragged chairs, well aware of the torn cloth on the seat. There was a sound of cracking knuckles. Lena, awkwardly standing in the center of the room, bit her lip in impatience. A door opened. Heath glanced up and accidentally cracked his thumb too hard. Johnathan quickly glanced at him before looking at Lena. 

"Your name, ma'am?" 

"Are you an intern?" Lena coldly inquired. 

"No, I'm the doctor." There was another sickening crack, followed by a series of quick cracks. 

"So....Doctor Crane?" Lena waited for Johnathan to nod. "I need to see patient 768, Chloe Wagner." 

Johnathan raised his eyebrows. 

"Are you her relative, ma'am?" He sarcastically asked, confident in the negative answer. 

"No, doctor, I'm her guardian." 

"Guardian? Of a twenty-nine year old woman?" 

"Every human being needs a guardian until they're thirty-five. Before that they're capable of accidentally walking under a train." 

"I wonder where yours went," Heath quietly mumbled under his breath. Lena showed him a fist behind her back. Johnathan looked far from convinced. 

"Written proof?" 

Lena wordlessly took out a small tube with some yellowish, clumped powder in it. 

"Bufotenin. Found in South American Bufu toad. Illegal to sell, posses, or buy." 

She tossed the tube to Johnathan, who nimbly caught it. For a moment, he studied it, rotating it in his hand with his thumb. Johnathan looked back up. 

"Follow me," he quietly ordered. Heath suddenly shivered. Johnathan's voice lacked emotion, only weariness strongly contradicting the frightening passion in his eyes which ignited when he saw the hallucinogen. 

Johnathan opened the door for them, not looking back. The hallway painfully stretched in front of them, as if being torn by the slaughterer. Metal doors caged them from both sides. Heath felt unexplained sweat slipping down the back of his hair as he listening to their echoing footsteps. Johnathan led them to an elevator and quickly inserted the key to get it started. The smell of spilled chemicals on the rug crept up Heath's throat. He held his thoughts to himself, instead looking around the rambling, metal box. His eyes stopped at the light on the ceiling. The glass was cracked, exposing the square light bulb. The elevator dinged and stopped. 

Johnathan wordlessly walked out. Lena and Heath followed him. It was eerily quiet in the hallway. Johnathan impatiently moved a creaking stretcher into an open room and out of their way. Heath, passing the unlocked room, slightly decreased his pace and followed the stretcher with his eyes. It continued rolling until it softly crashed into the wall and halted. Heath felt his scars slightly twinge and hastily looked away. Johnathan stopped next to one of the doors and began unlocking it. 

Heath sighed and leaned against the opposite wall. Suddenly, a loud, hysterical laugh stabbed through the door. Heath abruptly jolted forwards, almost choking on his own leaping heart. The laugh penetrated other doors, provoking a piercing shrill to rang out, followed by a wild holler, abusive swearing, unstopping screams, all cacophonously tuning in with the laughter. Heath felt the sweat freeze on his neck; the laughter ate his skin like an acid, burning right through the muscles and residing in his brain, causing his entire situation to be painfully real. Heath shared a lost glance with Lena. The woman was pale, yet managed to keep her emotions from melting down her features. 

"Excuse them," Johnathan calmly said, turning the key in the lock. "Now, ma'am, how are you planning to visit your ward?" 

Lena tore her glance from the atmosphere and looked at the doctor's unmoved face. 

"What are you offering?" She emptily inquired. Johnathan shrugged. 

"Any type of strokes, poisonings, suicides aided by smashing their brains out, starvation...." 

"What _are_ you talking about?" 

Johnathan shifted his glance on Heath, but didn't say anything. 

"Poisoning will do," Lena nodded, ignoring Heath as well. Johnathan shrugged again and opened the door. The contrast between the poorly lit hallway and the brightly shining ward was so strong that Heath had to squint his eyes. When his sight adjusted to the light, Heath saw a thin woman in a straitjacket and bulging, savage green eyes. The uncombed, black strands of hair covered most of her face. Her thin, crumpling lips unhurriedly stretched into a wide grin. 

"Missus Lena the hyena came to writhe in her arena," she deliberately seethed, purposely mispronouncing Lena's name. Lena slowly took out a cigarette from the pocket of her pants. 

"Hello Chloe," Lena cupped her hands next to her mouth and lit up the cigarette. Chloe's unrestrained eyes flickered up to the cigarette before settling back at Lena's face. 

"Came here to torture me with cigarettes?" She mockingly inquired. Lena smiled, taking out another cigarette from her breast pocket and turned to Heath and Johnathan. 

"Can we have a moment?" 

Heath readily stood up and left the room, Johnathan following him. The door heavily closed behind them. The screams and the laughter already stopped, only a quiet whimpering still reminded them of what has happened a few minutes earlier. 

*** 

"Well," Johnathan sighed. "Good to see you. Remind me, did you get the scars before you killed the woman and the man in the gun store or was that after?" 

"What?" Heath startled, barely believing what was going on. "Before." 

"So it was Falcone." 

"Yeah." 

The whimpering increased. Johnathan wordlessly walked over to one of the doors and knocked three times. The whimpering stopped. Johnathan, leaning on the door, turned back around to Heath. 

"I assume you need quite a few fillers," Heath bitterly grinned, tucking his hands in his pockets. 

"I don't think so. The van crashed, Falcone's men nicely wrapped you like a Christmas present, you rented an old apartment from an old man and paid him with the money you received from the gun shop. While doing so, you've killed a woman and a man and thus ran away. Afterwards, you make a grand comeback in the Outskirts at Hallow's Eve, freezing Jack in the morgue which I so unfortunately showed you. Then, you murdered all your classmates except one for unknown reasons and now you're here, entering my asylum with one of the most acclaimed and wanted hit woman of the decade." 

Heath silently stared at Johnathan. Uncertainty and doubt rose in him again, as they did every single night in every single dream with every single face. Heath gritted his teeth together. I had to do it. It was right. It was right. His brain slowly sucked in these words, reluctantly allowing to be deceived. Then he began speaking, wrinkles shredding his scars into uneven wounds. 

"First of all, my reasons were quite clear. I killed them because they were going to get killed anyway, except more brutally. So it makes no difference.” 

Johnathan raised his eyebrows. Heath defiantly glared back at him, sensing terrifying clarity touch his brain. Johnathan wasn’t buying it. Neither was his brain. 

Think about Robbie. Think about Robbie and how they murdered him. Think about Robbie. 

"What about Winnifred?" Johnathan finally asked. “That’s a difference.” The clarity tripped and shattered into pieces, sharply hitting the flesh. 

"What about her?” Heath turned around, folding his hands behind his back. Large blue eyes. Unspeakable terror. “I kept her alive, didn't I?" 

"Questionable," Johnathan snorted. "I'd say you buried her alive if anything." 

Heath's lips curled into a low growl. 

"I will not acquit myself in front of anyone." 

"If you're speaking to an idiot, yes. For your bad luck, Winifred is not an idiot and she will not take some doubtful protection as a reason for extinguishing human life." 

"Human life is as worth-full as a cockroach inside a sparrow's intestine," Heath quietly said. "For every unprincipled pig ten pigs are born. Especially in this city. Johnathan, I never regarded humans above animals. Place a dignified man in a suit in front of a train and we'll see how far dignity will help him." 

For a moment, Johnathan studied Heath's twisted, aching face. The murders were a moment of impulse, results of some emotional shock which, just for a second, wiped out all common sense, planting a parasitic idea. Like the idea of murdering everyone to protect them. Except even the idea had a weak spot. 

"You didn't answer my question," Johnathan finally said. "What about Winnifred?" 

Heath looked away, ashamed of the words ripping out of his rib cage. 

"I thought - I didn’t- I thought I’d do it. And now she's reminding me about it." 

Johnathan didn’t say anything. He knew that Heath didn’t even think about killing Winnifred. The prospect wavered above him, yes, but that’s all. He would never touch her. 

Perhaps if he killed her, the impulsive idea would have somewhat crystallized and gave Heath some illusion to believe in. However, he didn't kill her, the illusion shattered, and now the guilt was wrapping around Heath's throat. 

The door opened, and Lena walked out. Her face looked tired, yet content. 

"How did it go?" Johnathan asked, still looking at Heath. 

"Not bad. In the middle of our conversation, Chloe suffered a stroke." 

"From?" Johnathan specified. 

"Cyanide." 

Heath's eyes abruptly cut back on Lena's face. A strange emotion, something mixed with disdain and disgust, formed in his eyes. 

"We'll be going," he roughly lifted up his bags which he previously lowered on the floor. Heath glanced back at Johnathan, but didn't say anything and started down the hallway. Suddenly, he turned around. 

"By the way, was it Freddie who told you about... the company and all?" 

"Yes," Johnathan answered after a moment of hesitation. 

"Is she in Gotham?" 

"No." 

Heath nodded, pressing his lips together, and turned back around. 

"Freddie?" Lean repeated when they walked outside. "Who's that?" 

"Never mind," Heath sighed. He handed over her sports bag to her and, sliding one hand into his pocket, quickly crossed the street, lettuce poking from his grocery bag. 

*** 

The stack of papers collapsed on a similar one on the floor, the documents whirling into the air. Winnifred glanced over her shoulder, not too bothered by the mixing papers, and returned her attention back to the cabinet. Heaps of folders with loads of papers in between stared at her, all compacted with books and boxes on both sides. Winnifred bit down her irritation with her teeth and pulled out another folder. It burst in her hands as soon as it squeezed out of the two atlases. At loss, Winnifred observed the waterfall of papers. She peered; something colorful was stuck between the papers. Winnifred kneeled down and took out a small joker card. It was stiff and faded. Winnifred’s face softened with grief as she gazed in the jester’s primitive designs. 

“Missis Lewly?” Old lady Haggard swaggered into the room. 

“Yes?” Winnifred turned around, eyebrows raised. She frowned, noticing her matron’s worried expression. 

“What is it, Mrs. Haggard?” 

“Come and look for thee selves, young miss,” Mrs. Haggard retorted, face unreadable. 

“Where?” 

“Living room, miss.” 

Winnifred, anxiety beginning to drill a hole in her stomach, hurriedly walked out of her room and into the living. Nothing unusual. No stain on the rug, no broken windows. 

“Well?” Winnifred turned to Mrs. Haggard. “What’s wrong?” 

The old woman simply took the remote control from the television and increased the volume. Winnifred whirled around. Erin Koehler, the Gotham reporter, stared at her with a calm face. 

“...and Billy Hardy was stabbed to death. The last of the seven campers, Winnifred Lewly, has disappeared, presumably kidnapped unless she, of course, was the murderer. Until now, her traces were unknown; however, this morning, the local police has discovered her whereabouts in Gotham City. The consequent actions….” Winnifred slowly sat down on the couch’s handle, not hearing these ‘consequent actions’. She blinked, gaze falling down on the crumpled card in her hand. There was a long silence. 

“What do you think of this, Mrs. Haggard?” Winnifred quietly spoke, not tearing her eyes from the card. 

“I thinkses young miss should wait.” 

Winnifred lifted her head up, looking at the old woman. Mrs. Haggard was stern. 

“Wait? For what?” 

“If young misses doesn’t have anything to hide, then she shall waits.” 

Winnifred felt the drill bump into the rock under her stomach. 

“Otherwise?” 

“Otherwise she shall runs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting more and more intense!  
> By the way, Lena killed Chloe the same way Falcone wanted to kill Heath. I just wanted to clarify that because my sister did not get that from the first read.  
> Thanks for reading, folks! More fun stuff ahead!


	33. Part 4: Road To Hell - Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just noticed that Calavera also refers to his people as folks..... not intentional, I swear! ;)  
> The chapter length decreased again, but that's because serious stuff is following next. By the way, next week is going to be hella busy for me, so my updates may become sporadic. I'll try to stay consistent, though!

Lena happily scrambled over the shotgun. 

“Careful, fluffball,” Heath absently said, taking the kitty in his arms and away from the munition. His eyes silently counted the numerous weaponry in the boxes, once hanging in Heinrich’s gun shop. Heath had no idea why he stole them — probably a paranoid sense of insurance. 

Heath snatched a shotgun. His fingers fiddled in his pocket, until resting out a couple of bullets on the table. The round, metal cylinders rolled over the wooden surface. Heath sat down on the table next to them and slowly began loading the magazine, aimlessly whistling as he did so. Mark. The six of hearts. A player since forever, he had the entire fifth grade female population on their knees. Riley. Ten of diamonds. Goofy chess maniac. Sammy. Jack of Clubs. A sweet pie whose only criminality consisted in his sale of narcotics. Charlotte. Dear Lottie, the Queen of Hearts. She charmed not with more with her beauty but rather with her steadfast, unique individuality which she wouldn’t trade for high heels. Billy, Ace of Spades. The strongest man after the joker. The whistling faded away. Unknowingly, beads of sweat emerged on his forehead. He killed them. How could he have killed them? Shut up, Heath harshly ordered to his brain, but the latter angrily rose up against him. Images of the five days flickered in front of his eyes like a haze. They were a haze. A haze of raw emotion, blood, anger, and obsession, obsession that Falcone will get them first, that he will kill them, that he will rip out their bones, bleed their fingernails, and pull on the skin…. 

The magazine clicked back into the gun. Heath tossed the gun from hand to hand, trying to crush the thoughts with motion, before abruptly shooting it into the wall. The bullet pierced the center of the poorly drawn bull’s eye. 

“Nice shot,” someone said behind him. Heath glanced over his shoulder. Hands in pockets, Spockey was standing in the doorway, his thin, prickled lips stretched in a broad grin. 

“Hey,” Heath flatly saluted and turned back around. Don’t think about anything. Don’t think about anything. Spockey lowly chuckled and slowly walked over to Heath. To distract oneself, that one aimed and shot again. The second bullet landed next to the first one. 

“Calavera’s holding a meeting,” Spockey noted, eyes traveling around the room. He twisted his neck to get a better view on the shelves, before turning around walking over to them. 

“Really?” Heath snorted, squinting as he took another shot. 

“Yeah.” Spockey turned the letter over, eyes scanning the words. “Wants to go over the details of today’s crusade. Is she alive?” 

“Who?” Heath frowned, opening the magazine and replacing the bullets with the ones in his pocket. 

“Freddie.” 

Heath glanced over his shoulder, the gun sweating under his grip. 

“She’s alive. Why did you ask?” 

Spockey smirked, putting the letter back on the shelf. 

“You write to her as if she’s dead. Are you going?” 

He wants to kill the idiot. God, how he wants to kill him. Shut up. 

Heath wordlessly jumped off the table and pulled on his turn coat. They walked out of the garage in silence, Spockey mumbling something under his breath while Heath was lost in his thoughts. What if Freddie was really dead? Immediately, her pale face and numb eyes appeared in front of him. Sharp pain pierced Heath’s chest. The face was a face of a corpse; that was her face when she asked why did he kill them. Them. Her included? 

“Ah, you made it,” Calavera snorted once Heath and Spockey entered the old trailer. Lena sat on the kitchen top, picking her teeth with a toothpick. Carrotlocks, Jerry if you will, was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Some other unfamiliar thugs were part of the unnerving interior, but Heath didn’t really bother with them. Heath’s eyes darted back and forth. He held back a sigh and sat down on the stool next to a piano. Calavera rested his knuckles on the table, eyes jumping from person to person. 

“Dirk?” 

“Aye?” A black man sitting on the floor and monotonously clicking his safety back and forth glanced up. 

“Who was it this week?” 

“Lena,” Dirk nodded over to the woman. Calavera shifted his gaze over to Lena. 

“Lena?” The woman silently answered his stare. For a moment, Calavera wordlessly scrutinized her, thoughts rippling across his forehead. 

“Chloe Wagner, 27 years old, former Richie’s bounty hunter, worked here for three months before slipping it to the cops,” he suddenly spoke. “Caught five months later, placed in Crane’s loony bin for being mentally unstable and potentially dangerous. Did you do what I asked you to do?” 

“Sí señor,” Lena cupped her hands and flicked the lighter. “Offered her favorite cigarettes. They were with cyanide. Classic.” 

“Great.” Calavera turned away. “So, folks. Time to test our newcomers.” 

Jerry abruptly lifted up from the couch. Calavera snorted and continued. 

“I think y’all remember Mister Gefoltert.” Actually, Heath had no idea. He looked from under his forehead on the hunters. Their languid features seemed to instantly animate, sharp hunger emerging from their features. 

“Geffy’s Falcone’s man,” Lena lowly growled. With catlike movements, she slid off the kitchen top and walked over to Calavera. 

“Why the hell would you need him?” 

“Exactly because he’s Roman’s, my dear Lena,” Calavera smirked. “I want to know what Carmine is planning. He’s unusually active right now.” 

“And what about those two?” Spockey nodded, cracking a paper clip. Calavera clicked his tongue in irritation. Heath lowered his head, hiding his smile. 

“Those two will lead the operations. The first one will be led by Jerry. He will get Geffy into our van. As for Sir Joker, he will carry out the inquisition.” 

Heath sharply lifted his head up, his hand falling on the keys. The piano wailed in a high pitch. There was a short silence. 

“Beg your pardon?” Calavera sarcastically snorted. Heath slowly stood up. Lena cautiously watched him, a dangerous grin flocking around her lips. 

“Am I to use any... interrogation techniques I want?” Heath finally inquired, looking straight at Calavera. The mafiosi crookedly smirked. 

“Go ahead. Just be creative. Hate trite killers. Meeting’s over.” 

*** 

“Just be creative! God, I bet that son of a bitch won’t be able to hold a knife properly!” Heath angrily lashed, almost knocking over his glass. Johnathan rolled his eyes. 

“I don’t get it, are you so mad because you have to cut up a man or because you’re hired?” He sharply retorted. 

“Because I’m hired,” Heath growled, slouching his shoulders. “Thank god I never finished college. No job will hire me without a degree, and I won’t have to listen to those idiots try to tell me what to do.” 

“You can’t always stay unemployed,” Johnathan sarcastically pointed out. “That’s impossible. Unless you rob a bank, of course. But even that money will end.” 

“Then you just rob it again,” Heath grumbled, but it was visible that he calmed down. For a while, he watched a group of girls order their drinks at the bar stand. 

“Where do you live again?” 

“On the island.” 

Heath gave Johnathan a slanted glance. 

“Gee, you don’t have a lot of money, don’t you?” 

Johnathan twirled his glass, watching the beer splash around. 

“At least I have work I enjoy.” 

“Work away, Scarecrow." They were quiet for awhile. Heath thoughtfully watched the ladies laugh and joke around while waiting for their drinks. His gaze hardened. 

“Did you contact Freddie recently?” 

Johnathan unknowingly began tapping his glass, evaluating his answers. 

“I did,” he finally obliged. Heath’s eyes darted back on Johnathan. 

“How is she?” 

“Like a deeply wounded and betrayed person.” 

Heath looked away. “Don’t defend her.” 

“And don’t attack her,” Johnathan coldly parried. “What’s wrong with you? You never played offense with her.” 

Heath’s scars twisted in a bitter, crooked smile. 

“No,” he tilted his head, as if observing the situation. “No, I didn’t.” His voice suddenly became merry, like a laughing child’s. 

“That’s quite a change, isn’t it?” 

“A negative one. To be honest, Winnifred seemed more dead than alive because of you.” 

Heath’s smile suddenly dropped. His eyes darkened, and he looked away. 

“Protection is more important than the survival of others,” he said after a long silence, eyes still wandering somewhere beyond the bar. 

“When protection equivalents to murder?” Johnathan shook his head. “Damn, Heath, your logic can start a new branch of psychology.” 

Heath grimly smirked, looking away. After a moment, he looked back. The horrible illumination in the bar hid some of his features, revealing only a crude mask on top of dark, agonized eyes. 

“God damn it, Johnathan, I don’t want to lose her.” 

“And if you do?” Johnathan calmly raised his eyebrows, sensing his collar dampening from sweat. Heath shot him a strange look. 

“Thank god I don’t think that far,” he awkwardly chuckled. Johnathan sighed and leaned back on his chair, eyes wandering around the room. 

“Let’s just face it, the guilt is destroying you.” Along with Winnifred. “But just think of it as an accident, all right? You lost your hold, it happens—“ 

“Not everything is an accident, Johnny,” Heath quietly said. Johnathan turned to him, eyes carefully examining the sullen, sunk-in face. 

“Do you know the difference between an accident and an intention?” 

Heath took a large sip of the beer, ignoring Johnathan’s gaze. 

“You’re the psychologist, not I.” 

“You can’t repeat an accident,” Johnathan patiently answered. “You can repeat an intention.” 

A waiter’s customer check list flashed in Heath’s mind. Mitchell, table one? Served. That Gotham locals table in the corner for six? Served. Next table? The allegory was unexpectedly funny, and Heath snorted into his glass. Johnathan sighed and stood up. 

“You’re useless. C’mon, let’s go” 

The friends walked out of the packed building, the cold air reluctantly greeting them. Johnathan was anxious, both from work and Heath, while the latter was actually in better spirits from the joke than he was in the morning. To make the wasted day even better, it began to snow. 

“Oh look, it’s snow!” Heath exclaimed, arching his head back and watching the white fluffs raining from the sky. 

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a snow liker,” Johnathan sighed back, walking a few feet in front of Heath. That one glanced at him mischievously, decreasing his pace. A second later, cold snow crashed right below Johnathan’s neck. The doctor swiveled around. 

“God damn it.... ” Heath was kneeling down, laughing hysterically and hugging his stomach. Another second later, a snowball landed right into his mouth. Heath choked, spatting out the snow out of his mouth with laughter, some of it melting on his tongue, before noticing out of the corner of his eye that Johnathan was aiming another snowball. Heath dodged in the last second, falling into the heap of snow next to a trash can. Quickly, he grabbed a handful of snow and threw it at Johnathan. That distraction didn’t really bother Johnathan, and the third and final snowball complete destroyed Heath. 

“There,” Johnathan satisfactorily said, looking at his snow-cloaked friend from above. 

“For trying to drag me into winter games.” 

“Totally worth it though,” Heath laughed, shaking his head to get the snow out of his hair. Johnathan chuckled and offered his hand. Heath readily took it and stood up. Johnathan couldn’t contain his smile; Heath’s clothes were complete drenched with snow, little flakes tangled in his hair. His scars were redder than usual from the cold, but a relaxed, genuine smile was, well, totally worth it. 

*** 

There was a loud knock on the door. 

“Open it,” Winnifred quietly said. Mrs. Haggards looked at her in horror. 

“Young miss….” 

“God damn it, just open the BLOODY DOOR!!!” 

Frightened, Mrs. Haggards hurried out of the room. Winnifred fell on the couch’s handle, covering her face with her hands. She should’ve run. No, shouldn’t have. She should. Stop this right now. Winnifred dropped her hands from her face, as if they were burned, and dully listened at the noises in the hallway. A police officer with a few flanked behind entered the room. Winnifred held her features from twitching in tense relief; it was Lieutenant James Gordon, one of the few law-abiding cops that were left in Gotham City. 

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” Winnifred politely greeted him, the skirt soaking in the sweat from her palm. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Lewly,” Gordon answered her after a quick pause. His eyes quickly scanned her head to foot. 

“Do you know why we’re here?” 

“I’m afraid so,” Winnifred tensely replied, eyes darting at Missus Haggard, worrriedly standing behind one of the officers. Barely noticeable pity glimmered through Gordon’s sigh. 

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go with us.” 

“No!” 

The abrupt remark rolled off Winnifred’s lips before she could control herself. Immediately, she jumped off the couch’s handle and stumbled behind it, back crashing into the window frame. The police officers jerked forward, but Gordon alarmingly raised his hand. Winnifred stared at him wide-eyed in fear, chest heavily rising up in down as she tried to subdue the painful pace at which her heart rattled against her rib cage. 

“No?” Gordon lifted his eyebrows, taking a step forward. 

“No,” Winnifred hoarsely repeated. “I am not going anywhere.” You’re an idiot, you just told everyone that you murdered six people….” 

“Why not?” 

The heart pace transferred into the brain. Winnifred could feel the blood splashing against her skull’s walls, pressing to be let out. She clutched the wall behind her, fingernails scratching the wallpaper in an attempt to grasp something. 

“I didn’t kill them.” 

“Really? Do you know who did then?” A young woman stepped out behind the cops. Winnifred recognized her also. Rachel Dawes, the enthusiastic new District Attorney about whom Johnathan was complaining the other day. 

“No, Miss Dawes, I did not kill them,” Winnifred quietly repeated, sensing the blood trickle down the walls of her nostrils. 

“Yes, but who then?” Rachel impatiently stepped towards her. Winnifred slowly slid along the wall, the windowsill running across the tips of her palms. 

“I... I can’t say,” Winnifred whispered. Gordon quietly snorted. Rachel sarcastically tilted her head. 

“Really? Why not?” 

Winnifred dug her fingernails to keep the blood from dripping any farther. 

“Because he’ll kill me too.” There was a long silence. Winnifred defiantly stared at the people in her room, the blood sliding down from her nose and rolling over her upper lip. Liar. Liar. Liar.


	34. Part 4: Road To Hell - Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Violence!  
> Bell flowers: unwavering love  
> Thorn-apples: disguise

Heath stared at the little bottles of paint he stole from Heinrich. Long, thin fingers wrapped his guts around themselves, pulling tighter every single time. Heath twisted the cap and poured out the paint on the paper plate. The white liquid readily spilled out over the surface, like white, thin clouds over the white moon. Heath slowly dipped his fingers into the tint and lifted them towards his face. 

When the paint first touched his face, he jerked; it was cold. Clenching his teeth together, Heath continued sliding his fingers over his face, a white streak tainting his skin. Heath dipped for the paint again, rubbing the second try over his cheek. The paint roughly rested on his skin, creasing over his features like waves on an ocean. Heath’s fingers anxiously ran over the bottles, knocking a few of them over, and took out the red paint. His scars hellishly burnt once the pigments agitated them, but Heath didn’t care. Violently rubbing the scarlet paint over his lips, he stared in the broken mirror with unseeing eyes. _Do I look like a fairy? Little Freddie happily chattered, glitter splattered all over her face. Heath, glancing up from homework, snorted. More like a witch suffering from glitter-pox. Heath! O’cmon, Freddie, you know I’m just bloody joking! Heath, don’t swear!_ The black paint circled his eyes, not much different from his actual circles. Heath frowned, the movement cracking the hue. It was already dripping down. Heath stood up, tucking his knife into his pocket. He didn’t want to cut the man with his real face. 

“Lena?” 

The young cat tilted her ears and turned her little face to Heath. 

“If I don’t come back, the fish is in the fridge.” 

The cat yawned. Heath nodded and walked out. 

The snow crunched under his feet, snowflakes softly landing on his hair. He walked out early, whistling some long forgotten tune. It was only eleven, he had tons of time. The long, twisting fingers inquiringly tapped on his skull as if on a tabletop. Heath sighed and showed them a middle finger. They recoiled and, for a while, the drumming ceased. Heath glanced to his side, even though there were no cars, and crossed the street. It was eerily quiet inside, waiting for something. 

*** 

Heath saw Lena first, leaning on the black van and smoking a cigarette. 

“Hey.” 

Lena turned and abruptly jolted, dropping her cigarette. 

“It's a good night, right?” Heath noticed matter-of-factly, picking up her cigarette and, after a moment of examination, throwing it away. “And don’t smoke Marlboro, Camel’s better.” 

“As you say,” Lena managed to shrug, hiding her initial surprise. Nonetheless, Heath saw her glance at him from the corner of her eyes. He smirked and slightly leaned forward. 

“What, am I that terrifying?” 

“Like hell,” Lena nervously laughed. She suddenly raised a gun to Heath’s forehead. 

“So terrifying that I wouldn’t have any hesitation of blowing those brains out.” 

“Now Lena, we’re civilized people aren’t we?” Heath indifferently responded, eyes searching for the rest of the bounty hunters. 

“Where’re the rest?” 

“Inside,” Spockey stepped out of the van. He slightly stuttered, noticing the joker. 

“I suggest you hurry up.” 

Lena obediently got in, Heath stepping in after her. He took an empty seat in the third row and glanced around. There were only four people: Calavera in the front, Spockey at the steering wheel, Lena and Jerry in second row. Calavera turned around. 

“So, here’s the plan,” he gruffly said. “Jerry will kidnap Geffy. Lena and I will cover him. Spockey, Joker, you’re waiting in the van. We’ll then drive Geffy to the garages at the left of Elm Street, and then Joker will interrogate him.” His eyes drifted to Heath. 

“War paint?” He smirked. “Whatever. As long as you get the information.” 

“What specifically?” 

“What Falcone is planning. In details.” 

Heath nodded and looked into the window. Spockey started the engine. They drove in silence. Lena was loading the magazine with bullets, crude face absolutely calm. The radio awkwardly hummed in the salon. Jerry was clearly nervous, but refrained to looking out the window. Heath tilted his head backwards, eyes wandering around the ceiling. Anxiety drilled a hole in his stomach, allowing warm and humid nervousness to spill out and glide over his organs. He had to do it again. This time for money. Heath passed his tongue over his upper gum, trying to get rid of that dry coldness. The van stopped. 

“Here we are,” Spockey proclaimed and leaned back on his seat. Lena wordlessly opened the door and disappeared outside. Calavera also placed his hand on the door handle. 

“Be on guard,” he ordered. “C’mon, youngster.” 

Jerry hurriedly jumped out. The doors shut on both sides, leaving Heath and Spockey in silence. Spockey quickly switched off the radio. Heath leaned back and closed his eyes. There was time. He could sleep. 

_Heath woke up in the mill. He quickly stood up, gaze darting from object to object. It wasn’t his mill. There was the table where he wrote his letters next to the window, yes, but otherwise there were the boxes with guns and paint, a container filled with ice which served as the fridge, a ladder, pliers, old coats and car oil, as well as car parts that Heath found in the garage when he first came. Rusty kettles, pots, beams, gasoline, watering canisters, dynamite packs, withering bellflowers, overgrown by thorn-apples. Winnifred was sitting on a chair in the center of the room. Her left leg was folded underneath, fingers clutching the back of the chair. Heath felt paralysis slowly bleeding through his limbs. Please, not this again. Winnifred turned around. Her eyes were unusually shiny._

_“Hey there,” she amiably said. Heath smiled in return, not sure what to say._

_“Can you help me paint my face?”_

_“What?” What a great question, genius. When will you learn that asking questions is useless in dreams?_

_“For Hallow’s Eve,” Winnifred raised her eyebrows. “It’s today. Remember?”_

_“Of course,” Heath easily agreed and, taking a bottle of white paint which miraculously appeared next to his side, walked up to her._

_“Which color do you want?”_

_“Red.”_

_“I only have white.”_

_She indifferently jerked her shoulder. “White then. Doesn’t matter.”_

_Heath kneeled down in front of her, never tearing his eyes from her face. He knew that lesson well; as soon as you look away, everything changes. Winnifred calmly watched him without a smile. Heath poured the paint into his hand, neither feeling it, nor how it dripped down his hand. She was wearing a plain white T-shirt, rolled up black pants, and black tights. Heath sank his fingers into the paint and carefully touched her cheek. He did not feel her skin, just like he didn’t feel the paint. Her eyes drilled him as he applied the paint to her face. Unlike his, her paint didn’t crease or ruffle, but stayed put, until a completely white mask stared back at Heath._

_“God, Freddie, you look terrifying,” Heath chuckled, lowering down the paint. The mask smiled._

_“Shall I act terrifyingly then?”_

_“You can,” Heath easily agreed, tilting his head. “I know anyways that it’s not you who’s acting terrifyingly.”_

_“Who then?”_

_“A thought-up persona created to suit the mask.”_

_The mask sighed._

_“I disagree. Give a man a mask, and he’ll become his true self.”_

Heath jolted awake. Spockey hurriedly turned on the engine. There was a sound of a shutting trunk, Lena and Jerry stumbled into the salon, Calavera shortly following them. 

“Go,” Calavera breathed out, tucking his gun into his pocket. Jerry had a greenish tint to his face, but his eyes were triumphantly blazing. 

“How was it?” Spockey asked out of curiosity, foot crashing into the gas pedal with all might. 

“Not as good as it could’ve been,” Lena shortly responded, hiding away her gun. 

“Catch Jerry a break, Magdalena,” Calavera smirked, flicking on his cigarette. “Not every hit man lives long enough to have so much experience like you.” 

Lena snorted, but didn’t answer. Heath stretched his arms to shake off the sleep and stiffly yawned. Lena glanced at him. 

“It’s you next.” 

“I know.” 

The van turned into the garages where Heath lived. Heath slightly tensed, eyes darting at Calavera. They didn’t know he lived here. Let’s hope they didn’t choose his. 

“Stop,” Calavera ordered. Spockey jammed his other foot onto the brakes, and the van abruptly halted. 

“This seems good. Spockey, Jerry, get the man out of the trunk. Lena, Joker investigate.” 

Heath quietly swore. They chose his garage. Very well. 

He and Lena quickly stepped out of the van, while Spockey and Jerry fumbled with the unconscious mafiosi. They entered the garage. Heath felt his palms sweat. A young cat poked out of one of the boxes and happily ran towards them. Before she could approach them, Lena nimbly took out her gun and aimed. There was a dull shot, and the cat fell dead. 

“Would be too much trouble at the interrogation,” Lena lazily responded. 

Heath felt his paint melting on his face. Lena. His little kitten Lena. A strange feeling, something mixed between coldness, belated pity, and grief mixed in his chest. Heath wordlessly turned over a chair for Gefoltert. Spockey and Jerry entered the garage. 

“I have this strange feeling that I already seen it,” Spockey slowly said, desperately trying to both look around and carry the body. 

“Idiot, you couldn’t have been here,” Lena snorted. 

“Fuck off, bitch,” Spockey snarled. “What if the owner comes?” 

“Then you’ll shoot him,” Calavera impatiently answered. “One more bum, one less, who cares?” 

Spockey nodded and rudely tossed Gefoltert on the chair. The mafiosi quietly whimpered, face covered in blood. Heath silently raised his eyebrows. So much for clean work. Jerry tied the man’s hands behind the stool and stepped back. There was a long silence. 

“Well?” Calavera sarcastically asked. Heath wordlessly stared at the man. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t know how far his criminality reached. Mark, Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, Billy. The thugs were saying something, but he didn’t hear them. 

“Where’s the tape?” Heath suddenly asked. 

“In the car,” Lena answered in surprise. 

“Fetch it.” 

Lena nodded to Jerry, and the youngster quickly ran to the van. Mark, Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, Billy. It was an accident. An intended accident. A second later, Jerry returned and handed over the tape to Heath. That one wordlessly turned it on placed it on the table. 

“Everyone get out.” 

“What the h-” Jerry defiantly started. 

“I said get out.” 

Calavera nudged Gerry into the doorway, Lena and Spockey slowly followed them out. The garage doors closed. Heath was left alone. 

Mark, Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, Billy. 

Fuck them. 

The blade flicked in his hand. Heath leaned down to the man, examining him with his dark-trimmed eyes. Then, he suddenly slapped the man. 

Gefoltert abruptly jolted, eyes wildly moving across the room. They reached Heath and widened in horror. 

“All I ask of you is to be compliant and answer my one question,” Heath quietly said, ignoring the terrified gaze. 

“W-who are you?” Gefoltert frantically mumbled, eyes darting from side to side. 

“That doesn’t matter. I offer you a choice; either speak or be forced to speak.” 

“A-Aabout what?” 

“Falcone. What is he doing?” 

Gefoltert was quiet for a long time, eyes going up and down on his executioner’s face. Slowly, he calmed down, the initial terror eroding. 

“So you’re one of Calavera’s men,” he finally smirked. Heath held himself from rolling his eyes. 

“What I am doesn’t matter.” Heath fixed his grasp on the blade. “What matters is the option you choose—” 

“So listen you white-faced scum, I don’t give a damn about what you’re going to do, I’m not losing my reputation at Falcone’s to some freak!” 

Heath wordlessly stabbed the knife into the man’s ankle. Gefoltert screamed. The scream crashed into the metal walls, filling Heath’s mind with a resonating echo. Heath presses harder on the knife, and the warm blood spilled onto his hands. A strange sense of acuteness and animal lust rattled against Heath’s temple. 

“Whenever you’re ready to talk,” Heath peacefully said and began driving the blade upwards. The scream became louder and louder. Dry, covered in crackled red paint, lips stretched into a wide grin. 

Suddenly, a woman screamed. 

Heath abruptly tore the blade out of the man’s leg. 

The scream ended. 

Gefoltert, choking on his own breath, saliva drooling out of his mouth, stared at the man in front in inexplicable, raging fear. The man stared back at him, but his eyes didn’t see Gefoltert. 

Winnifred. 

She was standing there, kneeling down and staggering around, hands squeezing her ears. Blood dripped from her nose. 

The knife trembled in Heath’s hand. 

Winnifred glanced up, the white paint smeared across her face. Heath felt something snap in him. Those eyes. He had seen that expression before. Not in a human. In a bird. 

“Are you ready to talk, Mister Gefoltert?” Heath asked in a hollow, broken voice. 

Gefoltert wheezed, trying to breathe out words, but before he could answer, Heath plunged his knife into the man’s stomach. 

The man’s screams mixed with Freddie’s, tearing Heath’s mind apart. Heath wildly maneuvered his blade, blood splattering onto his shirt and jeans, Winnifred crouching down from pain. The knife abruptly turned to the right, then to the left. 

“There, There, Freddie.... nothing’s bad, nothing’s bad.... look, I’m carving a squirrel for you, look, that’s her little bushy tail, here we have to make a stroke more deep to create a contrast, there are her tiny feet, c’mon, take your hands away from your eyes, c’mon, I know you like squirrels, remember how we fed them with cereal flakes, c’mon, Freddie, stop crying, nothing’s bad, nothing’s bad.... ” 

The blood splashed on the floor, streaking the chair’s legs in crimson, but Heath continued cutting, scars twisting in devilish agony. 

“Do you not want to see me, I don’t understand, what happened, you know there was no choice, I had to do it.... or do you love them more than you love me.... I told you never to get familiar, Freddie, I told you a million times, Freddie, they would’ve told someone, anyone, but I can’t hide anymore, Winnifred, I’m tired of hiding, I want to do whatever I want without having to hide, god damn it WILL YOU SPEAK OR NOT?!!!!!!” 

Heath tore the knife out of the flesh. The blade clinked down in the floor. Heath’s entire body was shaking, dark eyes drilling into Gefoltert. 

“WILL YOU SPEAK???!!!” 

Gefoltert weakly breathed, eyes rolled up in the orbits. 

“W-wh-what…?” 

“What is Falcone planning?” 

Gefoltert twitched, lips barely moving. 

“S-Something with Crane.... and drugs.... there’s a larger employer.... ” The body twitched again and fell still. 

Heath stared at it. The lightbulb dully flickered, the sound of wheezing electricity flocking it. Heath slowly stood up, joints numbly stretching, before grabbing the tape recorder from the table and staggering towards the entrance. His jeans were soaked in blood, the warm liquid trickling off his hands. Heath roughly yanked the garage door open, cutting his palm on the metal, and walked out. It didn’t matter that he cut his palm. His blood wasn’t different from others’ blood. Lena was standing there, worriedly smoking her cigarette next to the van. Once she saw Heath, she hurriedly approached him. 

“You were so fucking loud, man, what the hell happened?” 

“Get the man out of here,” Heath sharply ordered her. By that time, Calavera jumped out of the van. 

“Did you—” 

Heath tossed the mafiosi the tape recorder. 

“There’s you information. Now order your men to get the body out. I’m staying here.” 

“But what if the owner comes back?” Spockey’s head wondrously popped out of the window. His piercing shimmered in the moonlight. 

“I am the owner,” Heath coldly retorted. “Give me the promised share, I don’t have any more money left on fish, and roll out of here.” 

Spockey and Jerry quickly ran out of the van. Calavera meanwhile observed Heath with narrow eyes. 

“Come back tomorrow, Joker,” He dryly said. “I have another deal for you. Then we’ll talk about money.” 

Heath spat on the asphalt and walked back into the garage. There were blood stains all over the floor, the chair’s seat was absolutely red. Heath stepped over Lena’s little body and collapsed on the bed. He squeezed his eyes shut and heard the distant flapping of the crow’s wings, escaped once more. 

*** 

“Kill you?” Rachel slowly clarified. “So you’re speaking that he told you to keep silent?” 

“He never told me anything of that sort,” Winnifred coldly answered, her fear melting and evaporating from the heat of her anger. 

“Then, implied?” Gordon forced. Winnifred hesitated. Did he? Perhaps he did, but honestly, she doubted if he would be able to kill her. 

“Yes, he did. Missus Haggard, may you get me a tissue please?” 

Her matron hurriedly shuffled into the kitchen. Gordon slowly walked over to her, lowering his gun. Winnifred carefully slid farther into the corner. 

“What can you tell us?” Gordon asked, his features softening. Winnifred’s blue eyes flickered up and down his figure. 

“Can we go to the kitchen?” She quietly inquired. Mrs. Haggard shuffled back into the room, a bunch of napkins in her splintered hands. Winnifred hesitantly reached for them, but Gordon didn’t do any aggressive moves. 

“Thank you,” Winnifred whispered, pressing the napkins to her mouth and nose. The tissues blissfully soaked in the blood. Gordon silently stepped away from her, quietly asking where the kitchen is. Rachel left along with the Lieutenant. The cops stayed in an awkward silence with Winnifred. The young woman quickly wiped her face and made her way among them. 

In the kitchen, Missus Haggard was already preparing the tea. Rachel crossed her legs at the table, neatly polished nails drumming the surface. Gordon folded his hands behind his back, looking out the window. When Winnifred entered, he turned around. 

“Well?” 

Winnifred bit her lips, glancing at her landlady. The old woman caught the hint and quickly left. Winnifred sat down across Rachel, fingers nervously clutching the tablecloth. 

“It would be easier if you asked questions,” Winnifred quietly noticed. 

“Alright,” Rachel flatly agreed. “Can you tell us who is the murderer?” 

“No.” 

“Is it the man who killed Jack Browning and Judge Mitchell?” 

She said before she thought, blindly following her instinct. Winnifred hid her hands on her lap, afraid that they’ll give her away. 

“No.” 

“Are you lying?” Rachel suspiciously narrowed her eyes. Winnifred was silent, clutching her skirt with her numb fingers. 

“What happened?” Gordon intervened. Winnifred’s eyes darted on him. 

“He... he killed us one by one. First was Mark. He was wounded in the head when he was getting the water for our kettle. Then was Riley. He—Do I really have to tell everything?” 

Rachel and Gordon shared a lost glance. Winnifred bit her lips, restlessly cracking her fingers. 

“Fine, fine, I know you won’t believe me otherwise. Well, after Riley was smashed by a boulder, Sammy’s stomach was sliced opened, followed by Charlotte who was shot, then Jacob was stabbed in the throat, and Billy in the chest. Satisfied?” Winnifred spat, familiar tears stinging her eyes. She defiantly stared at them. 

“Did the murderer talk to you?” Gordon finally said after a short silence. Before Winnifred could answer, a young cop stormed into the kitchen. 

“Lieutenant, John Gefoltert was found dead on the crossroad between Second and Montague Streets.” 

“Damn it,” Gordon swore and rushed out of the kitchen. Dawes quickly followed him, shooting a concerned glance at Winnifred. The young woman hurriedly stood up, watching how the horde of police officers leave her apartment in a second. Winnifred sighed and walked out into the living room. One young cop was still there. 

“Why are you here?” Winnifred suspiciously asked, picking up a book from the chair and placing it on the bookshelf. 

“Lieutenant ordered me to stay here until he comes back,” the young man calmly answered. 

“Oh joy,” Winnifred heavily sighed and switched on the television. She was essentially home arrested. The world gets crazier everyday. The national broadcast was concerning Gefoltert. Winnifred snuggled into the couch, clutching a pillow to her chest. Gefoltert, Gefoltert.... wasn’t that the head of the Wayne Records Department? The newscaster rambled about something concerning the injuries. The screen flashed on photos of the murdered. The young cop sat down next to her. 

“Interesting,” he smirked. He turned his head towards Winnifred. “Don’t you think that the wounds look like a side picture of a squirrel?” 

“Yes, I do,” Winnifred tensely agreed. “What’s your name?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I asked what’s your name?” 

“Bailey. Arthur Bailey.” 

“Nice to meet you, Mister Bailey.” Winnifred stood up and walked over to the kitchen. Her numb fingers automatically grabbed the teapot’s handle. The pot was so heavy. Winnifred silently poured the tea, but the cup wasn't even a quarter full when she lowered down the pot. She couldn’t hold it anymore, she was afraid she was going to break it, it was a squirrel, the teapot was too heavy. Winnifred opened the cupboard and took out the tea. She absently watched how the little tea bits spread out and dissolve in the water. Tears of helplessness and anger rolled down her face, but Winnifred quickly wiped them away. The tea was warm. 

*** 

“Did you hear the TV broadcast?” The young, blonde intern asked Johnathan. The doctor did even look at her, more focused on the composition inside his flask. 

“No, since I was sure you’re going to tell it to me anyway,” he answered in irritation, slightly shaking the flask and writing something in his blueprints. The blondie pressed her lips in frustration. 

“Well, Gefoltert was found dead today on the intersection between Second and Montague streets.” 

“How interesting,” Johnathan sarcastically replied, not looking up from his work. 

“What kind of truck would one need to knock out that beefsteak?” 

“He wasn’t hit, Doctor,” The blondie twisted her lips in annoyance. “He was sliced all over the stomach.” 

“What an effective way to lose weight.” 

“Doctor Crane, his wounds were formed in the shape of a squirrel.” 

Johnathan turned in his chair. 

“Really?” He incredulously inquired, his features slowly becoming serious. 

“Yes,” the intern girl triumphantly confirmed. “Quite a good squirrel, actually.” 

“I’m going to be right back,” Johnathan suddenly said, standing up and grabbing his coat. 

“If Rita becomes too aggressive, place her in a straitjacket. You’re going to interrogate Vesker in place of Jeremy, alright?” 

“Yes, doctor.” 

Johnathan nodded and walked out of his office. He quickly walked down the stairs and practically ran outside. It was snowing. Johnathan glanced on the street and the traffic and, deciding not to risk being slowed down by the congestion, quickly started down the boulevard. The streets were crowded with people; it was a Monday after all. Johnathan maneuvered among the them, coat flapping at his sides, and abruptly turned into a dark, smoke ridden alley. Crooked shacks and rusty stairways leading to daunting metal doors crouched at him. Johnathan ignored the amused and suspicious looks the bums gave him and ran up the steps of one of the homes. He loudly knocked on the metal door. After a few seconds, the door opened. 

“Scarecrow?” Lena raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Don’t you have work today?” 

“Let me in,” Johnathan harshly responded and entered the room without asking an invitation. He didn’t waste his time on looking around; the doctor slammed the door behind him, sharply grabbed Lena by the wrist, and pressed her against the kitchen's table top. 

“Fucking hell, Crane,” Lena seethed, trying to writhe her hand out of Johnathan’s tight grasp. 

“Let me go or else!” 

“Else what?” Johnathan lashed, pressing her harder onto the table top. “You’ll poison me with cigarettes? I don’t smoke Marlboro, miss.” 

“What do you want, asshole?” Lena bared her teeth. 

“Where does Heath live?” Johnathan quietly said, his fingers tightening around Lena’s wrist. 

“Who?” 

Johnathan furiously twisted her hand. Lena hissed in pain, eyes rolling up into her eyelids. 

“Don’t try to play with me, bitch. Where’s Heath?” 

“I don’t know who the hell Heath is,” Lena heavily breathed, eyes stabbing Johnathan. 

“If you’re talking about that pscychic sadist who killed Geffy, that’s the Joker.” 

Johnathan silently observed Lena, biting her bloodied lips to keep herself from screaming. 

“Where does the Joker live then?” He finally asked. The green eyes darted on his face. 

“Those garages at Elm Street. He lives in the one across the pink graffitied wall.” 

Johnathan released his grasp and Lena toppled on the kitchen top, catching her breath. When the bounty huntress looked up again, Crane was already gone. 

*** 

“I not do understandses why young misses is goings here,” Mrs. Haggard, shoving the cabbage into a plastic bag, hissed into Winnifred’s ear. 

“That cops still not lets you go.” 

“It’s okay,” Winnifred quietly responded, taking a sideways glance at Arthur who a few feet away from them. She convinced him that she absolutely needed to go to the bazaar with Mrs. Haggard, and now, the three of them made a strange company. 

“I don’t understands what you hopes for,” Missus Haggard repeated, disapproving glancing at the cop. Winnifred didn't understand herself. The bazaar was packed with people, yet the cop has proved himself to be extremely experienced in these types of situations; no matter how fast Winnifred maneuvered or pushed, he still managed to be close to her. Winnifred sighed and walked over to the next stall. They were selling nuts there. Winnifred noticed acorns and immediately sick. Heath’s best carving was a squirrel. What was he trying to prove now? Winnifred tiredly looked to the side. The tiredness disappeared in a second. 

“Missus Haggard,” Winnifred quietly leaned down to her matron. “Can you distract the cop?” 

The old woman indignantly stared at her. 

“Now what are you up to, missis? Do you want to get yourself in j—” 

“Now, Missus Haggard!” 

Missus Haggard sighed and staggered next to the cop. Suddenly, all of her purses fell next to Arthur, cabbages rolling out onto his feet. Being the gentlemen he is, Bailey obediently kneeled down and helped the old woman get her belongings back together. When he looked up again, Winnifred already disappeared in the crowd. 

*** 

The snow blocked her vision and ability to walk. Winnifred impatiently swatted the scarf out of her face, trying to keep Johnathan in her view. Judging by his fast pace, he was driven by the same motives as she was. Johnathan suddenly stopped, and Winnifred quickly hid behind a wall. She patiently waited, knees trembling, until he resumed his walk. Winnifred quietly continued, trying to step in his pace. They entered a narrow alley. Winnifred immediately recognized it. It was the “garage junkyard”, called so for the endless amount of garages stretching for miles and miles. Winnifred avoided this place due to the dark reputation it had. Johnathan stopped again. Winnifred abruptly braked, trying not to breathe. Johnathan looked on the wall. Winnifred shifted her gaze there also. It was graffitied in pink. AWESOME BOI or something. Johnathan walked into the garage right across it. Winnifred was left alone on the street. She quietly shuffled next to the garage’s wall, pressing her back against it, eyes inevitably traveling to the graffiti. Her fingers were sweating inside the mittens, yet her ankles were knocking against each other from the cold. 

*** 

Johnathan silently stood in the doorway. He didn’t try to remember the interior of the room. He didn’t remember it later. What he remembered was Heath, standing in front of a table, back to Johnathan. Multiple stacks of the card boxes were on the table. The man was taking out a deck out of the box, taking the last card, which was the joker, and letting the box along with the rest of the cards shower to the floor. 

“Freddie,” Heath rasped, automatically dropping the joker on the table and reaching for the next box. 

“My dear, lovely Freddie. Let me go. I’d rather be a man in a mask than a man who masks and unmasks every other time. I am not a monster. You may think I am a monster, but I’m not. Why should you care more about an old, useless, corrupt mafiosi?” Heath swallowed and looked down. His pale fingers grasped the joker card with intense force, his entire body shaking. Johnathan closed his eyes. Heath finally lost it. He lost his moral compass, even though he desperately tried to find it. He opened his eyes again, their gaze falling on a gun lying on a broken crate. Johnathan noiselessly took it and aimed right at Heath. His hand wasn’t shaking, and his fingers felt cold against the trigger. Johnathan silently stared at the man in front of him. He felt something break inside him. He didn’t recognize the man. So he pulled the trigger. 

Heath didn’t turn around at the sound of the misfire. Johnathan stared at the empty gun, before looking back at the man. Then, slowly, he lowered the gun onto the crate and turned around, walking out of the garage. Johnathan didn’t feel the cold, nor did he see the woman huddling next to the wall. That was the moment when he could kill Heath without hesitation. Afterwards, it was useless. No matter how much he would’ve tried, he wouldn’t have been able to pull the trigger. 

Johnathan abruptly turned the corner and almost ran into a telephone stand. For a moment, he just dumbly stared at it, guilt twisting his insides. Heath is dead. 

Heath is dead. 

He harshly jerked the phone and feverishly dialed the number. The dial tone droned in his head, too loud. Suddenly, it was cut by a rough voice with a Chicago-Italian accident. 

“Yes?” 

“Falcone? This is Crane. I’ll work with you.” 

*** 

Winnifred followed Johnathan with her eyes, wide with horror. When he walked out of the garage, his face seemed empty of any emotions and at that frightening moment, no different than the thousand faces of the inhabitants of Gotham city. Winnifred slowly turned her head towards the entrance. Her nerves were sipping on her intestines, twisting in an agitated knot. Winnifred slowly shifted towards the doorway, wincing at the loudness of the snow squeaking under her feet. She sucked in the air and abruptly walked in. 

The room was dim. There was a ragged bookcase on the left and boxes on the right. Winnifred’s eyes lingered on the numerous weapons huddled in those boxes. It would’ve looked like an ordinary garage if not of the chair with crimson seat and legs, dead cat on the floor, and blood stains all around. And a man standing back to her, cards splattered all over his feet. 

“Heath.” 

Heath’s eyes darted upwards on the mirror. Slowly, he turned around, straightening as he did it. Winnifred pressed her nails into her palms. Streaks of white paint covered his face, the dark circles emerging through the black paint, the red pigment unable to hide away the wounded flesh. Heath slowly walked towards her, before suddenly stopping midway and grabbing a ragged cloth from one of the boxes. He quickly dampened it with dirty water from a metal bucket with and hurriedly approached Winnifred. Then, he slowly began rubbing the moist cloth over her face. 

“What are you doing, Heath?” Winnifred quietly asked, not sure whether to be frightened or to smile. The rugged cloth scratched at her cheeks. 

“Wiping the paint off your face,” Heath seriously replied, continuing rubbing. After a few moments, he lowered down the cloth and studied her face. Creases wrinkled his face. 

“You’re not Freddie,” he quietly said. “You’re too sad to be her. Freddie was always smiling.” 

Winnifred wordlessly pulled him towards her, wrapping her arms around his neck. Hot tears scorched her cheeks. Pain and grief were ripping her apart, growling at each other on which one would have a larger piece of her. 

“Why did you come?” Heath quietly asked. Winnifred tensed under his tightening grasp. 

“Do you like it when I come?” she instead asked. Heath slowly pulled away, looking straight into her eyes. Winnifred felt the thin strings popping inside her, one by one. 

“I think you know the answer,” Heath quietly answered. Winnifred nodded, tears streaming down her face, and lowered her arms. Awkwardly tucking her hands in her pockets, Winnifred turned around and walked out of the garage. 

*** 

It was the next day. The TV was on. Gordon sipped on his coffee, wondering if the person who killed Gefoltert was the same one who killed Calavera. The reports of the latter’s murder came earlier this morning. Gordon wasn’t really surprised. Events like that happened every other day. What surprised him more was the sight of Winnifred Lewly walking into the police department. 

“Miss Lewly,” Gordon lowered down his cup. “Good morning.” 

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” the woman wearily said. “I’m sorry if I caused trouble for Arthur Bailey.” 

“Yes, he complained about this yesterday,” Gordon smirked, walking around the table and towards her. 

“What is it?” 

Winnifred wordlessly pulled out a joker card out of her pocket and handed it to Gordon. 

“That’s his calling card. I don’t know his name or alias. He’s a double homicide, robbed some weapons.” 

Gordon stared at the card. It was a regular, classic style card, with a benevolent joker drawn on it. Gordon glanced back at the young woman. 

“Anything else?” 

Winnifred grimaced and shrugged. 

“He has a sense for the theatrical.” 

Gordon nodded, sipping on his coffee and still looking on the card in thought. 

“Thank you, Miss Lewly. Don’t worry, we won’t bother you with cops anymore.” 

Winnifred nodded and walked out of the police department. You were right, Heath. One of them would’ve given you away. 

For the better or the worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (quietly cue drumroll.....)  
> THIS IS OFFICIALLY THE LAST CHAPTER FOLKS OF PART 4, FOLKS!!!! This chapter has... a large word count, but I really did not want to break it up because.... well, I think that all of the events that happened here were like dominoes; they fall neatly, one by one. And this is the climactic chapter and I really didn't feel like stretching it over two or three chapters. We only have the Epilogue (which may be one or two short parts, I'm not completely sure on how to break them up yet), so I'll save all my final thoughts till then. All I want to say is thank you to my readers and keep your seatbelts fastened for the epilogue, the Solarist Airlines just entered the landing phase of flight! :)


	35. Epilogue: When The Smoke Is Going Down - Part 1

_Two years later_

The alarm clock was unforgivably loud from the other room. Missus Haggard muttered some curses to herself, barging inside. 

"Theses bloody youngsters, will sleep even through Judgement Day, nothing wakeses them up..." 

The old, bulky woman harshly took the "youngster" lying in the bed and abruptly turned her around. The women submissively rolled over on her side, eyes wide open. 

"Ah," Missus Haggard snorted, placing her fists on her hips. "Not sleeping, aren't you?" 

Winnifred's wide, blue eyes slowly lifted from her matron's dull, pink apron to her annoyed, angry face. 

"What did you say about Judgement Day?" Winnifred's voice was still hoarse from sleep. Missus Haggard waved her hands at her in exasperation. 

"Never mind!" She trotted back to the kitchen, voice echoing in the apartment. 

"I said that you'll sleepes right through it, Wendy!" 

Winnifred smirked and lowered her feet to the ground. She desperately wanted to sleep through Judgement Day. Yet if she would, she would reproach herself until the real, less important Judgement Day comes. 

They ate in silence. Well, Winnifred ate in silence. Her housekeeper was chattering away the usual routine. Breakfast took Winnifred only a few minutes. 

"By the way, Wendy, why you goeses so early?" Missus Haggard noticed, turning away from the bubbling pot and lighting up a cigarette. Winnifred smiled, taking her dishes to the sink. 

"I don't want to miss Judgement Day." 

"Pardon?" 

Winnifred simply chuckled, quickly kissing Missus Haggard on the cheek. The old woman lightheartedly shrugged and turned back to the stove. Miss Wendy Lewly was a one of a kind woman, yet sometimes her strange jokes were too much for her housekeeper to comprehend. 

Winnifred wordlessly walked down the sidewalk. She eyed the constructors tumbling next to a destroyed skyscraper, blown up a couple of days ago. Sighing, Winnifred glanced left and right and quickly crossed the street, approaching the grand courtroom. 

*** 

The police were fumbling around him like terrified ants. He sighed. All this useless commotion. He leaned his head back on the bars and closed his eyes. The words formed all by their own. 

_Our dear lovely Freddie,_

_Four years. Long time no see?_

_I never chose the name. I just never said the name you know. They just went along with the most obvious._

_Do you hate me? There, in the woods, I didn't know. I still don't. I killed, yes I killed, everyone you loved, not sparing even our dear Lottie. Why then didn't you hate me?_

_You know, they call me mad. I'm not mad. I just don't take the world as seriously as they do. And I stopped believing in things. I hate to say this, but sometimes I didn't believe in you either._

_Gotham Outskirts didn't have any rules. Is this why you didn't hate me? Because there was no underlying rule about hating a killer?_

_Do you want to know why I kill? It calms me down. Sometimes I still see you, and you can't bear the you cant' bear the killings._

_Before I was disgusted, then I was forced into it, and now... I enjoy it. I know, you're probably horrified, but hey, it's only stage one. One day you'll move to the second stage, and then to the third. Who knows, maybe there's a fourth? I didn't reach it yet, even though I learn quick. Maybe you'll reach it first, I don't know._

_Human life isn't worth at all. Not until those last moments when the people reveal the truth they frantically conceal every single day. You know what I saw in you, when you thought that I was going to kill you in that forest? I saw the wild desire to live. Not an idiotic attempt to save the money, fortune, or honor. You love life despite that it doesn't love you. And in the moments when life kicked you the hardest, you didn't put a gun to your temple. I'm content. I'm happy._

_I found myself a new entertainment here. Mister Batman... he believes in the good of people just like you did once. I proved you wrong, didn’t I? Except I wanted to break only one of you, not both._

_Did you hear about Johnathan? Now, that's one fine criminal. Calavera wanted to pressure him into stopping his negotiations with Falcone, but I killed Calavera. Couldn’t stand him._

_I've seen Johnny yesterday, when the cops trudged me to this cell. He looks even more composed than usual. I'm pretty sure he didn't notice me._

There was a sound of keys in the keyhole. Heath slightly opened his eyes. 

_Even if they lock me up, Freddie, I'm not sad. I have nowhere else to go. Besides, it's pretty easy to escape from this padded cell._

_I never changed, Freddie. I was always like this. And I never wanted to kill you. Yes, you know me, know me much more than our friends from classroom number three._

_Always yours,_

_Heath_

The metal handcuffs snapped on his wrists. The cops roughly jerked him forward, trying to hide their fear. Heath submissively walked forward, passing other cells. He noticed Johnathan in one, leaning over the wall, arms crossed on his chest. Heath abruptly stopped. The piercing blue eyes behind the glasses narrowed, before brightening with recognition. Heath's lips curled into a faint smile. He resumed walking. 

They entered the courtroom. There was a sound of shuttering cameras. Heath smirked and allowed the cops to lead him to the right spot. His thoughts involuntarily drifted to his first court trial. Heath quietly sighed and sat down on the bar dock. He looked around. This courtroom was way more grandeur than the one at home. It's okay. Heath turned around and began inspecting the crowd, curious. All those pumped up gentlemen and ladies... Heath's gaze reached the right side of the room, fourth row, and froze. The judge called order and Heath turned around, a slow smile creeping across his face. 

*** 

Winnifred wordlessly listened, hands tightly clenched together. Heath was so mad, mad to the point that his words made absolute, perfect sense. This captivating, genial madness, not the wild makeup and scars, is what made Winnifred so terrified and agonized. The process was short compared to his first one. A quick bang of the mallet, a quick sentence of lifetime imprisonment. Just like in the first one. 

"Miss, are you all right?" 

Winnifred jerked and glanced at the young man, most likely some billionaire, sitting next to her. 

"Excuse me?" 

Winnifred followed his gaze down on her hands and the small droplets of blood. Winnifred hastily broke her spasmodic grasp, hiding her bloodied nails inside her pockets. 

"Yes, sir, I'm well." Her gaze drifted back on Heath, leaving with the cops. Heath's brown eyes bore into hers. There was nothing but immense happiness. 

Winnifred sadly smiled. 

"You know him?" The young man asked her, also following the Joker with the gaze as he left the room. Winnifred quickly glanced at him. 

"No." She quickly stood up and left the courtroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some chronological logistics, folks..... (to clear up potential confusions)
> 
> Take the start of this story as the reference point. It's middle/late spring, then comes summer, Winnifred is in Maine, then she comes back, the entire bedlam with Browning occurs, autumn and Hollow's Eve. Now, after Hollow's Eve and when Heath kills everyone, two years pass. At the end of the second year, our trio reunites. However, Heath never really processed that he met Winnifred - if you caught on in the previous chapter, he thought she was another of his hallucinations. 
> 
> The third year begins. This is the year when _Batman Begins_ occurs and Johnathan does the entire shenanigan with Ra's al ghul and the fear toxins. According to Nolanverse, another year passes after that and boom, we have _Dark Knight_. If we do the math, Heath, from his perspective, didn't see Winnifred for four years. 
> 
> Sorry for the confusion. 
> 
> By the way, both the epilogue and Part 4 were named after songs; the former is a Chris Rea song while the latter is a Scorpions song. 
> 
> I'll save all my thoughts and words for tomorrow's final update, but I just want to say that you guys are simply the best and thank you for reading!


	36. Epilogue: When The Smoke Is Going Down - Part 2

The weather was worse than ever. The sky was coated in metal clouds, raging on top of the billowing sea. Old barman Ford was quietly whistling to himself, wiping the beer glasses. The rain pattered on the large windows, streaming down like tears. The front bell suddenly tinkled. Ford looked up and lowered down his glass. 

"Good afternoon, sir!" 

The visitor took off his soaked coat and walked up to the counter. 

"Good afternoon. Whiskey, please." The bartender quickly disappeared behind the bottles as the visitor's eyes scanned the empty bar. Ford returned in a minute, carrying a small glass of the desired alcohol and curiously studied the man. He was around thirty six, medium height. His dark hair was slightly grey at the temples, completing the tired look on his face. The blue eyes behind strict eyeglasses, however, were burning with barely visible, hidden fire. The visitor quickly drank the whiskey. 

"Anything else?" Ford politely inquired. 

"Yes. Do you know where Winnifred Lewly, if she's still Lewly of course, lives?" 

"Winnifred Lewly?" Ford raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

"Yes, Winnifred Lewly," the man impatiently repeated. "She arrived here nine years ago." 

"Ah, Freddie..." Ford heavily sighed. "Are you her relative?" 

"I'm her friend." 

"Well," Ford sighed again. "You see, Miss Freddie died two years ago." 

The visitor's eyes wordlessly widened. 

"Yeah," Ford sadly continued, looking down at the glass he was wiping. 

"It was her spasms. You know about them, right?" 

The visitor silently nodded. 

"Well, they did it." 

The rain quietly pattered on the windows. The man's eyes aimlessly traveled around the room. 

"So where did she live?" He quietly asked. 

"In her uncle's house," Ford gloomily answered. "Crown Avenue, number five." 

"Thank you." 

Ford watched him leave into the rain, then looked down at the money on the counter. Sighing, he took it before forcefully making himself whistle. 

*** 

The key, which was under the rug, trembled in the key hole. The pale fingers, which spasmodically gripped the key, tightened and roughly turned it. The door swung open, and Johnathan entered. 

The house welcomed him with composed warmth. Johnathan's heart filled with lead, pulling him down, as he quietly closed the door behind him. Every object, every nook of once a detestable house seemed to breathe with Winnifred's already disappearing air. His footsteps quietly echoed in the abandoned walls. He stopped at the dining room. Johnathan bitterly scanned it with his eyes. Thank god Heath refused to run the day some other deranged criminals barged Blackgate Prison. This would've broken him even further. 

There was a vase standing on top of the dining table. The flowers have long withered, their black, lifeless corpses leaning over the glass. A letter was pinned under the vase. Johnathan wordlessly walked up to the table, sensing that in any moment, he might lose control over his feelings. His fingers ran over the paper's surface, tracing the fading words. 

_Dear Heath,_

_It's time I pay you back the debt._

_I remember Riley telling me something nine years ago that you made a bet that you’ll care for me and my family after eleven years. I won’t be able to live that long. I don’t know, did you win that bet? Because I think you lost._

_Seven years ago, I was at your court. You saw me. Was I more happy this time, like your real Freddie?_

_I'm well. I buried Billy, then continued on my way. But I never came back to the town. Instead, I left to Gotham to work. It was only after two years when I got my courage to send a letter to Aunt Martha and Margaret that I am well. They're also well._

_I left to Maine right after I left you in that horrid garage. I couldn’t stay. It’s your court that dragged me back to Gotham. Mrs. Haggard was kind enough to let me stay for one night. She said that I will sleep through Judgement Day. I should’ve slept through your Judgement Day._

_After I’ve seen him last in your garage, I didn’t have the strength to see him again._

_I regret that I didn’t contact Johnny. It would’ve helped both him and me._

_When I first heard of what you did.... you know, the ferries, Dent and all.... I ended up burning your letters. Every single one. I'm sorry._

_I know what they say about you. That you're mad. That you kill for fun. Do you, though? Has this become your life now? Have your life became a dream, or nightmare for that matter, that actions lost consequences and life value?_

_Do you remember Robbie and Lucy, those little kids you and I promised to teach card tricks? It’s a shame no one can teach them now._

_I never hated you, even after you killed Charlotte. God knows I wanted to. I still want to hate you. I can't. All I feel is empty sadness. And an increased desire to drink some tea._

_Best regards,_

_Your dear lovely Freddie_

The End 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... And here we are.   
> First of all, I would like to thank every single one of you folks who has read and reviewed this fanfiction. This was and still remains one of my most close-to-heart and treasured stories that I've written, and even if it is now, for me, slightly outdated, I cannot cherish it less. It was the accumulation of my emotions, thoughts, my first fanfiction which got reviews (I had other ones that were read by like three people, which I've deleted, but it's okay because I'll die of shame if I posted them right now), a challenge which I overcame (when I told my sister that I want to write a DC fanfic for the first time, she rolled her eyes, made a boring face, and said I wouldn't stomach it, geez did I prove her wrong), and just a story which I long wanted to write.  
>  And you folks reading it.... it's like balsam. Thank you, and I hoped this has been just as wild of a roller coaster for you as it was for me.

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this chapter was so weird because the style in this chapter is already outdated (i.e. I don't write like that anymore....) Anyway, I got the joke about the scarecrow from an interview with Daisy Ridley, pretty sure it was for Peter Rabbit. This fanfic is not beta-read (I mean, my sister read it, so I guess that counts as some level of editing) and will update every day. Hope you enjoyed it! Don't forget to leave kudos and comments! Thanks!


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